An oak leaf hat he had for his crown;
His shirt of web by spiders spun;
With jacket wove of thistle’s down;
His trousers were of feathers done.
His stockings, of apple-rind, they tie
With eyelash from his mother’s eye
His shoes were made of mouse’s skin,
Tann’d with the downy hair within.
I made poor Tom an easy bed,
But he said give him a geocache instead
Upon its sight with pen you'll roam,
And record your name in his tiny tome