He Wasted His Wishes On Wishing.

At Night My Mind Does Not Much Care If What It Thinks Is Here Or There. It Tells Me Stories, It Invents And Makes Up Things That Don't Make Sense. I Do Not Know Why It Does This Stuff. The Real World Seems Quite Weird Enough.

I Made Myself A Snowball As Perfect As Can Be. I Thought I'd Keep It As A Pet, And Let It Sleep With Me. I Made It Some Pajamas And A Pillow For It's Head. Then Last Night It Ran Away, But First - It Wet The Bed.

I Opened My Eyes And Looked Up At The Rain, And It Dripped In My Head And Flowed Into My Brain, And All That I Hear As I Lie In My Bed Is The Slishity-slosh Of The Rain In My Head. I Step Very Softly, I Walk Very Slow, I Can't Do A Handstand-- I Might Overflow, So Pardon The Wild Crazy Thing I Just Said-- I'm Just Not The Same Since There's Rain In My Head.

I Would Hope That People, No Matter What Age, Would Find Something To Identify With In My Books, Pick One Up And Experience A Personal Sense Of Discovery. That's Great. But For Them, Not For Me.

I've Found My Missin' Piece So Grease My Knees And Fleece My Bees I've Found My Missin' Piece!