Dearest shooting star,
Take me away with you to a place
where the rays of hope can't even tip toe through the dark clouds of despair,
where all the colors fade into grey to ally with my grave soul and
where every detail disappears into the shades of night
just to make his wish come true.

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.