Have you ever stepped in a puddle?

Just been walking along, minding your own business,

when you find your foot all damp and sorry?

And then kept walking along, socks a-sloshing,

spirits a-dwindling, all because of that darn raincloud?

And when you cut your finger with paper blade,

oh how it hurts, how you want the hurt to go home, go away.

Father Time can help, you know.

He may be slow, but he’s sure as steady.

The moon knows it.

The sun knows it.

Even the little mice know it.

That’s why they live in little hidey holes,

that’s why they go home at day.

They know that tomorrow waits,

hiding under Father Time’s coat cubes of cheese laid out on plates.