Of the deviant scheme,
of the parents regime,
that would keep us from staying up late.
When they came home from work,
they would set, with a smirk,
all the clocks, sixty minutes ahead.
After dinner and play
and a bath they would say,
“Oh it’s time, now, to get into bed.”
“But it’s still light outside,”
was the plea that we cried,
“and the sun’s shining in the window.”
But the clock doesn’t lie,
was their sweet lullaby.
To this day, they believe we don’t know.