I've a father who's known for ascending a clock,
a magnificent ticking antique.
In between twelve and one,
he began and was done,
not a scratching was heard nor a creak.
He was nimble that night, as he is everyday
when he teaches me all that he knows:
"Be attentive my son,
it will help when you run,
and remember, be light on your toes!"
He would tell me such things every time I attempt
to accomplish his notable feat.
I've a chance in my youth,
but to tell you the truth,
it's a difficult act to repeat.
I've ascended so much as three-fourths of the clock
with his help, but in spite of my haste,
the device would go "thump,"
and I'd fall on my rump,
and then whimpers would color my face.
But my father is quick to attend to my tears,
we'd eat cheese while exploring the house.
If my mood should be sad,
he would soon make me glad
to be born as his son and a mouse!
I'm so happy to have such a comforting dad,
and so happy to have such a home,
for this morning I scaled
up the clock without fail,
and came down to recite him this poem:
"Daddy, I scaled up the clock!
'cause daddy, you taught me to climb.
The clock struck two,
and down I flew.
Goodness--just look at the time!"