
The Ticker-Tack Man
By Rob Walker
At 2:59 the streets are empty,
As quiet as a tomb
At 3 o'clock the silence broken,
With a clattering sound of doom
For the Ticker-Tack Man cleans the streets,
Before sunrise every morn
And if your not in bed by then,
You'll wish you were never born
You can hear him coming from far away,
With each step he takes
The tell-tale sound of "ticker-tack"
Is the only noise he makes
He's dapper in a tall top hat,
And dinner jacket tails
His long and spindly hands wear gloves,
Which cover sharpened nails
Each eye looks like candle flame
Inside a darkened cave.
His teeth look like old tombstones,
And his mouth an open grave
Your town is like a spider's web,
Each street a silken strand
He will sniff you out wherever you go,
And will snatch you where you stand
You can't outrun the Ticker-Tack Man,
For while two legs are fast
He strides much quicker on eight long legs
There's no way you can last
The quickening clatter of eight footsteps
Grow louder as he draws near
For the dreaded sound of "ticker-tack"
Will be the last thing that you hear.