Madeline,
oh Madeline
Why
are you always out of line?
Is it
because your never ontime?
Madeline,
oh Madeline
Is it
such a crime,
to be
out of line?
Oh
Madeline
I've
been longing for something bright,
maybe
something even white,
something
white to guide me through the night
Once I
saw a mouse,
He was
a stout mouse,
Stout
a mouse I saw
It is comfet that I seek,
something
soft and sleek,
maybe
something even a bleake gray
I was
full of dismay,
when I
found that the bleake,
was
only to be a treat
On my
street,
There
is a house,
Made
out of old feet,
What a
smell,
Because
I dwell,
Right
across the street.
Copyright
© 2012 by Anna Morrison-Hill
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission
from the author.
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