We’re half the way to Whimsy. Our feet are getting sore.
Half the way to Whimsy, where we plan to open doors.

Butterflies the size of bats hover ’round our heads
And bicycles on bouncy roads have sparkles on their treads.

Half the way to Whimsy is only partly droll
But at least we’re finding it a pleasant little stroll.

Ahead a man is hawking; his bird gives us a glare.
When walking down to Whimsy it doesn’t do to stare.

And at the gates of Whimsy we stop and take a gander.
The gates are icon-clad and people crowd the landing.

Inside the gates of Whimsy you’re not allowed to eat.
If you spill the beans, you see, they may not let you leave.

And photographs? Heavens forfend! That isn’t why you came!
The denizens are not the sort to fit inside a frame.

If I described — the robots, lights, the watercolored gears,
The shelves of books, daguerrotypes, boxes full of tears,

The flock of sparrows, spider’s web, the flavor of ice cream —
Oh, never mind. Just pretend you’re visiting a dream.

And when you’re leaving Whimsy, remember: no one stays.
Mostfolks visit briefly, and rarely in their days.

Pack a wistful smile for lunch, and wear your smallest clothes.
You can ride the cat bus home, to rest your tired toes.