The people walk upon their heads, The sea is made of sand, The children go to school by night, In Topsy-Turvy Land.
The front-door step is at the back, You're walking when you stand, You wear your hat upon your feet, In Topsy-Turvy Land.
And 'buses on the sea you'll meet, While pleasure boats are planned To travel up and down the streets Of Topsy-Turvy Land.
You pay for what you never get, I think it must be grand, For when you go you're coming back, In Topsy-Turvy Land.
— H. E. Wilkinson
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