We wrapped the webs around our fingers

Early when we couldn’t see

We saw the moon hanging like a thimble 

Hanging on three fine threads 

Twice we watched with amber eyes 

Four wintry faces all aglow

The silver bower peering over

To watch the spider finely carven   

The spider, her small form above
the bed where I lay to sleep
Her thin legs carry her
in circles, in zigzags
with fine silk behind her
She weaves and she moves
silent, intently
she spins and she weaves
she spins and she weaves
the stuff of my dreams

The Gnomes are bouncing on the spider's web,
just like a trampoline,
the spider's don't appreciate this
but don't wish to be mean

so they just push a shove a bit
oh, no-- it's quite gentle, sure,
they just want to fix their traps
and the fly cunningly lure

but the gnomes are too loud next door,
they want to have a party,
the spiders rolled their eyes and said,
'We should'a moved away, see?'