In a room where the wallpaper blooms with the rose, The King of the Cotton is taking his pose. A crown made of gold on a head made of pink, He pauses to ponder, he pauses to drink. The steam from the porcelain curls in the air, While yarn balls are rolling beneath every chair. Oh, everything is stitched... Everything is sewn... A kingdom of fiber, a soft-padded throne. From the wings of the pig to the trunk of the king, There is magic in every... knitted... thing. He walks down a path where the strawberries grow, With a winged little friend who is ready to go. A submarine yellow for bathtime and play, The rainbow is watching the end of the day. He checks on the jars in the shop by the moon, For the Whistle of Stitches will be starting soon. One... loop... over... One... loop... through... A sweater for me... and a blanket for you. The Cosmic Theatre is opening wide, Step past the velvet and wander inside. Whistle... Everything is stitched... Perfectly... Goodnight.
