The Swamp
There's a swamp at the end your bed, he said,
at the end of my bed there's a swamp.
My daddy told me so, he did
whenever I wouldn't stay in bed.
There's a swamp at the end of your bed.
The swamp at the end of my bed
is filled with icky worms,
they squirm about and wriggle.
They're horrible, slippery worms, they are
They're horrible, slippery worms.
Still, I stole my daddy's boots last night,
I stole my daddy's boots
and when the hand strikes 12 O'clock
down to the end of the bed, I'll go
to the end of the bed, to the end of the bed,
down to the very edge.
Down in the quagmire's inners
lurk monsters, big and bold,
maybe an odd old leather boot
has fallen, so I'm told.
It will be such fun to explore it,
the swamp that seeps through the floor.
My daddy thinks I'll stay in my bed,
but staying in bed is a bore, I say
staying in bed is a bore.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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