Midnight, old father clock rings out
To fill his ballroom home
With mournful peals so loud, they shake
Some gilding off the dome.
Red velvet drapes, in shadow, shroud
The windows of that house.
Small paw prints crisscross dusty halls
From the only soul, a mouse.
The old brown mouse quite tiredly asks,
“Must you disturb my rest?”
That gilded father’s curt reply,
“Must you be such a pest?”
Not heeding pleas, the clock goes on
Lamenting days long past
And his acquaintance to grand men
Whose dreams he held so fast.
“Oh, how those men of fortune sang
The praises of my balls.
Far grander persons than mere mice
Once roamed these spotless halls.”
“Your balls, eh?” asks the grinning mouse.
“I’m sure those balls are kept
Quite fondly in the minds of men”
The father nearly wept.
“I’ve hosted kings and sailors too
On cocktails drunk with lime.
Queen’s gown shone like a spider’s web.
Oh, how sublime that time.”
Unable to keep sleep at bay,
He scorns the father’s pout
And snuggles deeper into bed
As sun, unseen, comes out.
The clock rings out at noon, but none
Are left in that dark room.
Not even a mere mouse to break
The silence of that tomb.
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