A King in Exile

O THE Queen may keep her golden
   Crown and sceptre of command!
I would give them both twice over
   To be King of Babyland.
Sure, it is a wondrous country
   Where the beanstalks grow apace,
And so very near the moon is
   You could almost stroke her face.

And the dwellers in that country
   Hold in such esteem their King,
They believe that if he chooses
   He can do—just anything!

And, although his regal stature
   May be only four-feet-ten,
Think him tallest, strongest, bravest,
   Noblest, wisest, best of men.

Ah, how fondly I remember
   The good time serene and fair,
In the bygone years when I, too,
   Was a reigning monarch there!

But my subjects they discrowned me
   When they’d older, colder, grown;
And they took away my sceptre,
   And upset my royal throne.

Yet, although a King in Exile,
   Without subjects to command,
I am glad at heart to think I
   Once was King of Babyland.