Have you ever been lost in reverie?
Your lawn trolls are goin’ bad,
Then you feel a pain—some sourpuss
Chest-nesting while you nap.
The sensation is not so good;
In fact, it is rather bad.
And you wonder, while sawing wood
(While thoughts are wandering,
Perhaps not clearly understood,
Somnolently maundering),
Dazed, you wonder while sawing wood:
Is the imp pressin’ on my chest?

You know, those odd creatures aren’t stacked too high,
But they have strength gnomes don’t possess.
You feel ’em as they sidle over your thigh. . .
Then sedentary on your breast.
The sensation is not so good;
In fact, it is rather bad.
Put under, you are sawing wood
While thoughts are wandering—
They wander while you’re sawin’ wood;
Your REM they’re sundering.
Those imps get restless on your chest.

They don’t go southward
Into a nest or testes—
Not incubus or succubus
Lad or lass.
Nonetheless, they’re pests.
They might pinch and then kink your nose
Or they might go mouthward
And tickle it while ’stricting your snout.
Those sensations are not so good;
In fact, they are rather bad.
And you wonder, while sawing wood—
As thoughts are wandering—
You wake up after sawing wood
Now up, you’re wondering,
Your dreams not clearly understood. . .
Why’re there impressions on my chest?