It’s almost twelve, see the clock?
Time for goblins, and seers to mock
The hour of all scary things
Midnight is when it all begins.
Not a believer I hear you say
Well that’s fine until the day
You go to bed at nine or ten
Try to sleep but can’t and then
A creaking, squeaking, maybe a thump
A dragging, a moaning from the trunk.
You know that old one sits in the hall
I’m sure you won’t be bothered at all
It’s probably only the wind
Surely it’s nothing that’s in
That old thing, it couldn’t be
Might get out of bed and take a look see.
Feet are feeling a bit unsteady
Round the corner thinking I’m ready
The trunk stands open and hanging out
Is that a hand? Who are you, I shout!
No answer but it seems to rise
I need to go back to bed, be wise
It’s only a dream I think to myself
As the clock chimes twelve times from the shelf
I run back to bed, hide in my room
Only a nightmare, not a figure of doom.
The clock stops striking the bell
It seems the creature went back to hell.
Tomorrow that trunk is leaving this abode
And the clock–I want one with a digital mode.