“It’s time to get up pal” The lad’s father said,
As he opened his son’s bedroom door.
The three alarm clocks were ringing all in tune,
And the lad said “Okay”- nothing more.
By the time he’d done his washing and shaving,
Ten minutes had passed for the dad.
No movement took place in the bedroom,
So he had one more go at the lad.
“It’s quarter to eight son” he spoke out –
He felt like BT’s speaking clock.
“I know,” came the voice ‘neath the pillow,
Sort of muffled, like said through a sock.
The dad went downstairs, let the cat in,
Kettle on, curtains drawn, moggie fed.
Took his wife a nice strong cup of tea up,
Whilst the lad firmly stayed in his bed.
The “It’s eight o’clock” shout went unanswered,
So just after his mother tried too.
Told him “Son, you’d best get a move on,
Or your dad will be angry with you”.
Get out of that bed and right now, lad!”
“It’s ten past you’re making me late!”
“Oh okay” said the son turning over,
He knew that his father would wait.
When twenty past came there were noises,
As the lad wandered into the loo.
Shirt and trousers and socks went in with him,
As did hair gel and mobile phone too.
A half past the lad then emerges,
Runs downstairs grabs some toast off his plate.
“Hurry up dad! Come on! Get a move on!
If we don’t set off now I’ll be late!”