I know a gnome
Without a home
In front yard or in back.
He lives alone,
Runs on the roam,
And eats fireflies
As his snack.

His name is Nantucket
He sleeps in a bucket
That once housed the milk of a goat.
He’s saving up money
Despite his roof that is runny
To buy a big, beautiful, fishing boat.

But one day this fine fellow
Ate snow that was yellow,
Which his mother said he aught naught to do.
He got an ache in his tummy
And, though the warm snow was yummy,
Nantucket got a bad case of flu.

“Good grapes!” yelped the creature,
“I was planning to feature
My boat in the Pageant of Boats!
But now that I’m sick
I can’t get money quick
And can’t afford one thing that floats.”

So poor, old Nantucket
Went back to his bucket
And slept soundly because he was sick.
His roof was still runny
And he still had no money
For yellow in snow is worst pick.

If the gnome would have heard
When his mother lent a wise word
He’d not be a gnome all alone.
He would get out of milk bucket,
That clever Nantucket,
And be boating his big boat on the Roan.