Bedyet

Bedyet It’s not time to go to Bedyet, I’ve frequently been told, By people who won’t travel, be they four or nine years old. And others even older won’t visit the Bedyetter They leave it late, refuse to go, although they should know better. Have you been to Bedyet, you really have to go There’s something there for every one, I promise. I should know! I’ve been myself, so many times, I know the places well. And you should too, and if you’re quiet and listen I will tell. The folks who go to Bedyet have heavy hooded eyes, With droopy lids that seem as though they’ve grown to twice their size. Their hair it seems disheveled, with whispey random curls Not at all they way we choose to see on proper boys and girls. The Bedyetter are fliers, they cross the colored skies And when they fall they safely land as if on rubber thighs. And each of the Bedyetter, from babes to those full grown Can tell a tale that’s better than the best you’ve ever known. The Sandman’s a Bedyetter, a busy chap is he, He visits every dreamy head before the morning tea. And when you get your cuppa you may feel a little grain Like sugar on each eyelid, and he’s the one to blame. Some of the folks in Bedyet have mouths that open wide, With long and breathy smiles, and teeth moving side to side. And arms bent at the elbows that seem to point the way, For others that will follow them before the end of day. The children there are dreamy their thoughts just run astray And they don’t seem to hear too well, no matter what you say. I even heard it said that some have let their faces droop, So far down to the table that they wind up in the soup. But all will wind up cozy when you travel to that land And though you don’t expect it, things always go as planned. Just pack yourself off early, and always floss and brush, And take yourself to Bedyet and join the rest of us.