Up the hill where the wild fern grows
and the bumblebug sleeps on the opossum's nose
is a magical place only I know-
Past the bush and half-hacked weed,
and through the field of the rotten-seed
is a magical place only I know-
Far from home down the river of grapes
where the purple clouds make funny shapes
is a magical place only I know-
The monkeys there carry old brass keys
and the birds ride bikes with such ease-
the frogs eat air and the worms eat trees
with orange leaves that taste like cheese.
The grass is blue with ice cream rugs
and broccoli cakes that look like bugs-
the flowers give each other hugs
and the zebras drink from frosty mugs.
The caterpillars sing and play
while the fickle spiders work all day
spinning their webs made of clay
and milking geese for Christmas day.
Up this hill where the wild fern grows
and the dodo birds put on their shows
about chocolate cows with baggy clothes
is a magical place only I know.
