Little Room where
Everything is True
And is it true? And is it true?
This most tremendous tale of all?
After all the questions,
I’m here at last with you,
In the little room where everything is true,
Where the bed
Is Captain Stubble’s pirate-ship,
Is Bag o’ Bones Island,
Is the 176 to Penge,
Where thirty fluffy friends call round for breakfast
Of sharks’ fin stew and indigo ice-cream,
Where, underneath Ikea star-splashed skies,
We slide for a hundred and fifty million years
Down the long, long length of a diplodocus’ neck,
Into a bucketful of bedtime stories.
And all of them are true,
And all of them are true.
If you have any comments on this poem, Annie Fisher
would be pleased to hear from you.