• In the dreams of little children
    All the clouds are made of cotton,
    All the houses made of gingerbread,
    Or whatever’s left they’ve got and

    In the dreams of little children
    They would never have to sleep
    Never have a mom to say,
    “It’s bedtime, not one peep!”

    In the dreams of little children
    The roads are lined with sweet tarts
    And the cars are made from candy corn
    With bumpy roads of pop rocks.

    Little rock-candies would serve as the police.
    With robbers, and Indians, galore!
    Once they’re done playing, they’ll sit and they’ll feast
    Until their poor stomachs are sore.

    The trees are made of broccoli
    (After all, what else could it be?)
    But the rockets in the sky above,
    Now that’s where most will be.

    Up high among the clouds they’ll sail,
    And catch a piece of moon.
    They’ll say, “It’s really made of cheese!”
    And eat it with a spoon.

    But after a while, their stomach hurts,
    Their eyes are getting sleepy.
    In not too long, they’ll think of home
    And return to creeping.

    Creep back to bed, under the covers,
    And slide in without a sound.
    After all, they have to be careful…
    Surely Mom’s around!