Five Minutes

The blissful peace of night was shattered by the harsh alarm,
More piercing and more cutting than the rooster on the farm.
Maurice Talbot stirred as if awoken from the dead,
Slapped his fist down on the clock and snuggled up in bed.
There was no special reason for this unexpected sloth.
He’d not been on the gargle, he’d not stayed up late, or both.
He only wanted five more minutes in his private world,
And so, beneath the covers, Maurice stretched and yawned and curled.

One whole hour later, Maurice woke up with a start,
The brightness of the morning sunshine quickened up his heart.
He snatched the clock and stared at it and uttered a strong curse,
“Flipping heck!” he yelled out loud, or maybe something worse.
He leapt out of the bed and very hurriedly got dressed,
Putting on his jumper backwards underneath his vest.
He had no time for breakfast and he had no time for shaving,
No breakfast either, adding to the time that he’d be saving.

He hadn’t time to stop and buy his normal morning paper,
But hobbled down the country lane as fast as he could caper,
Glancing at his watch he ran on with a sense of panic,
As if he were the engineer aboard the doomed Titanic.
Oh, how he cursed his slothfulness that made him very late
To do his job and pull across the level crossing gate.
Somewhere o’er the fields he heard the whistle of the train,
And then a big explosion, half a mile down the lane