My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
And though years would congeal Grandpa’s brain to malt-o-meal
He’d one wish that would not be denied
For his will said to bury him in the clock
When the old man died.
Now grandfather’s grandfather built him the clock
And he built it like no clock before.
But the old so-and-so built it so high and wide
That we can’t fit it out through the door.
So when Grandma’d been calmed and Grandpa had been embalmed
We discovered the clock was too wide
But the G-d damned cadaver had gotten jammed;
He was stuck inside.
So old grandpapa’s standing there in the hallway
At Nine-Seventeen Cherry Lane.
And he stands, the old cuss, making faces at us
Which we try to ignore just the same.
But we still think of him as we haggard, pale, and grim,
Stagger into the cold morning’s light,
‘Cause at odd times he’s ringing the blasted chimes
Every G-d damned night.
So at 3:22 A.M. (ding-dong, ding-dong)
«My G-d, there goes Gramps again!» (ding-dong, ding-dong)
At odd times, he’s ringing the blasted chimes
Every G-d damned night.