Every 28 or 29 nights, when the moon shines full, out come the Sylph, the Nymph, and the Ick to play and clean and fuss. Down from the cracks they dangle, by finger and by feet. Out of the shadows of the tree limbs, to dance along our streets.
The Sylph they tiptoe through the houses, to fix what’s broken and to clean. Dancing out within the gardens the Nymph’s they prune and preen. While in through the keyholes, the Ick they like to slip, to tangle all our hair and mess up every dish.
The children, in their beds, are sleeping, their parents snoring very loud. The Sylph they stand there smiling, of their work, they are quite proud.
Out in the moonlight flowers glisten as Nymph’s pelt them with the dew. All in your bedroom Ick are crawling, lacing knots in all your shoes. The Sylph they get so angry with all the messy, icky Ick and around the house they chase them with their feather covered sticks. Up on the shelves and cupboards, climbing curtains, Ick try to hide. While through the windows Nymphs are watching, all their eyes and mouths hang wide. Sunlight just beyond the mountains, night, it starts to fade. Stumble the Sylph, the Ick and Nymph, bumping and shoving along the fields and glades.
Into knotholes jump the Nymphs, going their own way. Sylph they slide into the attics and under houses where they may. While Ick, they stand with tongues stuck out to greet the coming day.
And as all are soundly sleeping, whether in a bed or a pot, dream they of many nights where not the moon would drop.
This one I feel is kinda rough and could use some work, but it's copywritten, so, I've got time to play with it.
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