Last year my bed-time was at eight, And every single night I used to wish the clock would wait, Or else stay out of sight. It always seemed to me The next half-hour'd be The nicest time of all the day If mother would agree. But she always shook her head And she sort of jumped, and said, 'Why, it's late—after eight— And it's time you were in bed!" That clock would always do its best To sit all quiet there, Until I was my comfyest In some big easy chair. Then its striking would begin, And I'd tell my Motherkin How I'd just begun a chapter, And it was @3so int'restin'@1— And the end was just ahead— But she @3usurully@1 said, "No; it's late—after eight— And it's time to go to bed!" And now my bed-time is ha-past,— But yet that old clock does The same mean tricks—it's just as fast, Or faster, than it was. Last night it seemed to me The @3next@1 half-hour 'd be The nicest time of all the day If mother would agree. But she smiled and shook her head, And she kissed me while she said, "Why, it's late—ha-past eight— And it's time you went to bed!" |