The kitchen clock tick-tocked as the seconds passed.
James, aged 7, thought that time went too fast.
As the clock came closer to chirping out eight,
the louder it seemed to resound the boy’s fate.
Eight o’clock sharp was James’ bed time.
The most awful time for the cuckoo to chime.
First he had a bath where he sank his red sub,
and he splashed in the tub,
and he made boats go “glug glug.”
Then he brushed his teeth until they all sparkled bright.
Smiled at the mirror admiring each pearly white.
Story time came, and it went much too fast.
And the cuckoo clock shouted from the shadows it cast.
But this stormy night, James would stay awake.
He would play his part well, the fear and heartache.
He would pretend to see a monster in his underwear drawer,
then mommy and daddy would run through the door.
They would turn on the light to clear darkness from room,
saving poor James from a frightful nighttime doom.
He would get hugs, and kisses, and songs.
His bedtime routine would be nightly prolonged.
So when the light was turned out and daddy said “good night,”
James waited a minute then shrieked out in fright.
Thunderous footsteps led to the door,
and his daddy burst in like Paternal Thor.
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