My Clock - Poem by Laura E. Richards

My little clock, my little clock,
He lives upon the shelf;
He stands on four round golden feet,
And so supports himself.

His face is very white and clean,
His hands are very black;
He has no soap to wash them with,
And suffers from the lack.

He holds them up, his grimy hands,
And points at me all day;
"Make haste, make haste, the moments waste!"
He always seems to say.

"Tick tock! tick tock! I am a clock;
I'm always up to time.
Ding dong! ding dong! the whole day long
My silver warnings chime.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock,
And time to go to school;
Don't loiter 'mid the buttercups,
Or by the wayside pool.

"Ding dong! tick tock! 'tis two o'clock.
The dinner's getting cold;
You'd better hurry down, you child,
Or your mamma will scold.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis six o'clock.
You've had the afternoon
To play and romp, so now come in;
Your tea'll be ready soon.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock.
To bed, to bed, my dear!
Sleep sound, until I waken you,
When day is shining clear."

So through the night and through the day,
My busy little clock,
He talks and talks and talks away,
With ceaseless "tick" and "tock."

But warning others on his shelf,
All earnest as he stands,
He never thinks to warn himself;
He'll _never_ wash his hands.