Willie Winkie lived in a land of magic, in the region called Butterfly Haven;
For Willie was a diminutive elf, like the violet blossoms, of purple fixation.

Willie and his beloved wife, Elvira, lived highly organized, pleasant lives;
For magic impels ways and customs to differ, like buds, as spring arrives.

Everyone called Willie Winkie, 'Wee,' since most elves were notably bigger;
But, he was Director of Dreams, scattering joys of plum night, with vigor.

Violence was completely unheard of, inside their peace loving community,
Of pretty, spotless, blooming streets-and children, well rested and healthy!

Fair magenta clouds got lacy frills, as hours fidgeted, bearing fast friends.
All fervidly danced as one, at dusk, to the forever friend tunes, of no end.

Fascination was a trait of fragrant flowers, staring dewy-eyed at lemon sun;
Until fast moving family arrived, with emerald fireflies, when day was done.

Willie lived in the house of hydrangeas, in shades of pink, blue and cream;
Crowding pretty at every door and pane, as stylish birds, of much esteem.

Sparkling and litterless was their street, of sapphire sky and dusk surprise,
Where the scandalous moon still glowed at noon, with stardust in her eyes.

Neon nature knew how to lure neighbors, along neat streets, paved in gold,
In noisy days of croaking frogs, and red butterflies, silken cocoons foretold.

Baseball plants were playing games, and sundew plants drank out of doors,
When 'devil's tooth' flora grinned wickedly, and 'black magic' drew applause.

'Hammer orchids' were handy all summer, in yellows, creams, and maroon;
And witches' hair plants went uncombed, due to the blood on cherry moon!

Elven children had broken curfew lately, based upon gossip, heard by Elvira.
This agitated the Director, who called the Dream Patrol, in starlight vanilla.

So, each evening the children were taken home, and the director took part,
Indicating the value of his mission. The shamed kids, had a change of heart!

For if the Director of Dreams, himself, had forgone rest, to insure their own;
Then it must be a precious thing, like emerald nature, on her rubied throne!

'Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown;
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
“Are the children in their beds?
Now it’s eight o’clock.