He gently unfastens it, lifts off the lid,
And sets the dream out on the bed.
Then, after they’ve brushed it and dusted it off,
They place it up close to your head.
The King takes the key, and he winds up the dream;
And while it is working, they dance
With the King in the middle, “all hands around,”
Till the end of the beautiful trance.
Sometimes he has trouble untying the knots,
And tries to undo them too quick,
When of course he gets mad, throws the box on the floor,
And bursts in its sides with a kick.
Now the dream, though a pretty one when it was packed,
Is all dented or cracked, he will find.
Which has spoiled all its beauty, and therefore you’ll have
A nightmare of horriblest kind.
He ties it together, climbs up on the bed,
And props up the dream on your breast,
Then sits on your stomach, and he and the Gnomes
Await the outcome of the test.
They say not a word, but whenever you move
They look at each other and grin,
While the King, like a statue, keeps still and looks wise,
And strokes the lone beard on his chin.
