THE HOOPSKIRT

In the night when all are sleeping,

Up here a tiny old dame comes tripping,

Looking for her lost hoopskirt.

My great-grandaunt — I never saw her —

Her ghost does n't know me from another,

She stalks up the attic stairs angrily.

The dust sets her sneezing and coughing,

By the trunk she is limping and hopping,

But alas — the trunk is locked.

What's an old dame to do, anyway!

Must stay in a mouldy grave day on day,

Or go to heaven out of style.

In the night when all are snoring,

The old lady makes a dreadful clatter,

Going down the attic stairs.

What was that? A ghost or a burglar?

Oh, it was only the wind in the chimney,

Yes, and the attic door that slammed.