I had a dream, it would seem
To be of Never-Almost, a land far and wide
It has blue grass, green sky, a Festival of Apple Pie
And the ocean turns purple at high tide.
The people there wear their hair
In the funniest, strangest, weirdest style
A cockatoo perch in one, mushrooms growing in some
One little man had curls piled on, I’m sure they reached a mile!
The Festival that I’ve mentioned before is held on the long north shore
Of the murkiest beach in the biggest town
While they act like slobs, apples are bobbed

They all gathered round as the Pickler cried,
"Come! Look upon these new lands!"
and then they all dashed like mad down the side
of the hill, wildly waving their hands.

The pumkin they left, to mark the last place
where they had left all of their things
except for the nets (the Politician made a face,
for he hated to chase bugs with wings.)

You should never lose your batter
Because it will really be a tatter
but it doesn’t really matter
If you’ve never met a hatter

If you’ve been in a pickle
You probably seen a sickle
And there’s been a trickle
When there’s never been a ripple

Dearest Ofailia,
I feel as though it has been years since I last wrote you. I realize I should have replied to your last letter months ago but I find that between the crash of the toothpaste factory where I worked when you sent me that last letter, and starting up my new stationary business I have been rather busy, so please forgive the long delay, believe me, I would have written you sooner if I could have found the time.