My Squeaky Swing

Upon my squeaky swing I fly

to worlds reversed.

Where blue grass grows beneath green skies

and last is first.

The eagles swim and starfish soar

in sandy skies and cloudy floors,

and salty chips can be coerced

to quench my thirst. 

My squeaky swing, as it slows down,

sways to and fro.

I land my feet back on the ground;

my face aglow.

I give the swing a little twirl

and spin out of the backwards world.

The swing is where I always go

when I feel low.