A Wish Before Going to Sleep

Tonight I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, 
and I don’t know why, but I've got a restless feeling.
And in the otherwise darkened room I look at the small green light
shining from a smoke detector, telling me it’s alright, 
I don’t have to replace the battery, at least not now,
and that green light really bugs me, but I don’t know how
to stop it. It’s always there, glaring, but I don’t dare
block the light with tape. That’s dangerous.
I don’t want to do anything dangerous.
Why would I want to do anything dangerous?

Green light, green light,
only thing I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
have this wish I wish tonight:

I wish that in the morning,
I’ll have the same brain,
but somehow I’ll be in Spain,
well, actually I'll be in an ocean near Spain,
or Australia or Madagascar or Angola
or somewhere, I don’t care where,
as long as it’s underwater, warm, and dark.
And instead of arms,
I’ll have tentacles,
because I’ll be a squid.

Because if I was a squid,
nobody would care what I did.
I could float around all day long
and sing to myself a little squid song,
“Ah, 'tis bonny to live in the ocean,
and 'tis bonny to be a big squid
'tis bonny to move in squid motion
Of joy I shall never be rid!"

And if the mood struck me,
I’d do squid yoga,
and if the mood struck me,
I’d poke plankton,
and if the mood struck me,
I’d sneak up on the beach,
hold my breath, and reach
a tentacle around the neck
of a sleeping sunbather,
feel the afternoon breeze,
and squeeze.