Topsy Turvy is her name;
She's a curiosity:
Never sees the world the same
As it seems to you and me.

'All the world is upside down,'
So she says; then, with a frown,
'If it's not it ought to be.'
Topsy Turvy! Topsy Turvy!

Takes you to some old wood pool,
Or some well to prove she's right:
'There's the real world, you fool!
Something's wrong with people's sight.

There's the sky, the clouds, the wood.
There you see them as you should.
If you don't it's out of spite.'
Topsy Turvy! Topsy Turvy!

'You are walking on your heads,
And don't know it; but it's true.
You don't lie down in your beds,
But your beds lie down on you;

You are under them. The sun,
Moon, and stars are, every one,
Shining underneath you too.'
Topsy Turvy! Topsy Turvy!

'Seems that no one else can see
As I see it. It's a shame,
Or your own perversity.
But, good Lord! I'm not to blame.

Don't know what you miss, you don't,
By not seeing things you won't.
My! how fine they look to me!'
Topsy Turvy! Topsy Turvy!

Then she runs away and hides
By a creek and looks for hours,
In the water where it slides,
At herself, the trees and flowers,

Sun and skies and clouds, and if
You just laugh, she gives a sniff,
Shakes her head and glares and glowers.
Topsy Turvy! Topsy Turvy!