The Cheshire Cat's Dream

On Sundays when I has me Welsh Rarebit, it gives me the wherefore to dream,
That I'm sinking down under the ocean, with haddock and mustard and bream,
And my head it departs from my shoulders, and flies off up to the blue sky,
Where all that is left is my chinny-chin-chin and a grin that descends bye and bye.

So sing me a song of bread pudding, and marshmallows toasted with jam,
Of dear Alice Liddell playing piggy in the middle and a reverend who says who I am.
This is not the true fate for a grey-brindled cat from the mansions of Chester-le-Street,
I should have fur on my belly and a swishy old tale, and definitely four sets of feet.

So listen, now, dear Mr Carroll, for I feel that I know you of old,
Pray be kind to the cat who sleeps on your mat and leave me a tale to be told.