The antique clock won’t tick
I much prefer the tock
Of that darned old wooden clock
That bird, my word, it sings
The commotion it brings
Do stuff that chick; I’ve a sock!
Bold, the pendulum swings
But the clock has no springs
Wish it would grow itself wings
Why should I repair it
To have it go . . . tock . . . tick
I truly don’t give a lick!
It’s said to have value
And perhaps that is true
I never liked it, do you?
Wish it would fall down . . . break
Young . . . it kept me awake
Help me drown it in the lake?
Sell it for the money?
You’re truly a honey!
What a reward . . . that’s funny!