Half way down Cherry St.,
Past the rundown town cellar,
Is Woodburch Clock Shop;
Run by a lady and a feller.
And late in the night,
When the man has ceased to fiddle,
He treads off to bed
And the shop moves a little.
And the coo-coo bird tweets,
And the grandfather clock scowls,
And the alarm clock rings,
And the little clocks just howl.
And throughout all this ruckus,
The broken clocks snore.
For they never wake up,
They’re too much of a bore.
But the only thing
The man and lady could hear
Was the angel-like giggle
of their daughter Suzy Dear.
And so the woman rushed to her side,
And the man asked “What’s the matter?”
But the girl only gestured to the clocks.
“Don’t they make such a clatter?”
And though the man was confused,
The woman just smiled.
Then she turned to her husband:
“Oh, to again be a child.”