Too Much Imagination

When Fiorella lies abed
But cannot fall asleep
In her crafty Fio head
She counts a herd of sheep

One woolie bounces o'er the stile
One circles it around
One clears it by at least a mile
One tunnels underground

One takes it at a flying leap
And vaults for outer space
One slows his pace down to a creep
And falls upon on his face

Some somersault and some cavort
Some risk a tour jete
Some overshoot and some fall short,
Some falter at halfway

Some sheep are white, some black, some red
Some tinted apricot
Some are sheathed in check or plaid
Or stripes or polka dot

Claws of steel are sprouting now
And hellfire lights their eyes
Horns pierce the skin above each brow
The air rings with their cries

With roaring monsters in her head
Sleep is not to be
So Fio goes downstairs instead
And watches the TV.