You see, Bia, at the little house we know,
on Walnut Street, time stayed at the gate,
to flow away as it wishes, slow.
Inside, it smells of milk and cat-lazy days,
curled up in rocking chairs, by the stove,
the two grandparents doze.
And in the wicker basket, woven tight,
sleep some four little fur balls,
whiskers twitching in the night.
It's evening and Old Man Sandman on their lashes, lets sleep fall.
Only Sheba, the mama cat, and the pendulum don't sleep at all.
They keep watch over the little ones' sleep,
and make sure their dreams are happy and deep.
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