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.