It is 4 O’clock,
and it’s time for tea for me,
and a piece of cake.
People are stirring,
the floor boards are telling me,
and the doors agree.
Well the paint’s drying,
and the old kettle is boiling;
I’m writing my book.
It is happening,
I know it is and I’m sure,
one day I’ll be right.
The night’s drawing in,
and the lights welcome me home;
the music plays on.
