“The monster’s on the loose,” he cried
From underneath his tattered shawl,
Which slipped from him, as did his mind,
While wrinkles creased his curtain call.
The old man lurched upon his bed,
His trembling lips betrayed his fright.
He spoke in whispers filled with dread
Of horrors rising with the light.
“It hungers by the fireside,
Ferocious, fearsome, free again.
What cage can mortals make to hide
Its face, which haunts the hearts of men?
What barricades or bars could stand
Against the rage of its attack?
No chains could e’er contain its hands.
It presses on with no way back.
The monster comes.” His eyes stretched wide.
“What creature could this be?” I asked.
He raised his bony finger high
And pointedly declared at last:
“The beast gives chase, it never stops.
Its clutches catch those who would flee.
The ticking clock breathes tick, then tick.
Its crooked hands catch up with me.”
I followed where his finger reached
And thereupon the hour chimed.
The face upon the mantelpiece
Sought out its prey, the next in line.
’Twas me it saw, and woe betide.
“The monster’s on the loose,” I cried.
