eight o'clock
The kitchen ticks too loud at night , It is a horrid place ; Black-beetles run about the floor At a most dreadful pace . The cellar is quite black with coal , The cat goes scratching there ; People go tramping past above , But nobody knows where . The dining-room has rosy walls , And silver knives and forks , And when I listen at the door , I hear the popping corks . The library smells like new boots , It is a woolly room ; The housemaid comes at eight o'clock And sweeps it with a broom . The staircase has a thousand rods That rattle if you kick , And when the twilight makes it blue I rush up very quick . The landing is a dismal place , The bannisters creak so , The door-knobs twinkle horribly , The gas is always low . The drawing-room is cold and white , The chairs have crooked legs ; Silk ladies rustle in and out While Fido sits and begs .