Grandma’s Suitcase


Do you remember being little children?
All lost in pretty things?
Do you remember being little children
Dressed up in long skirts, and painted rings?

Well, I remember being a little girl;
A little princess, born to rule.
Handsome knights, and scurvy churls.
Whatever my imagination brought to the pool
Of ideas that sprang forth, clad in spectacular garp.
Angels and demons, flowers and barbs.
I remember, too, where I got those things,
Those dainty skirts, and painted wings.
I got them from Grandma's old suitcase,
Which was beaten, battered, and torn.
It was from my grandma's old suitcase
From which my adventures were born.
All the laces were worn.
The wools eaten by moths.
The hats were all torn,
Well beaten cloths.

To me they were perfect;
Not battered at all!
To me they are perfect
When my dreams come to call.

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