Creaky covered wagons
Roll westward through the skies,
Pulled by cloud-white oxen
With mischief in their eyes!
What can it be they’re planning?
I quiver with a hunch.
They’ll race across cloud prairies
And have the sun for lunch!
But lo! The wind is rising.
The oxen turn and flee,
Pursued by fleets of sailing ships
Across a sky blue sea!