The Pudding

Once upon a 4 AM dreary, while I made pudding weak and weary,
Over a quaint and curious pudding recipe of forgotten lore,
While I stirred, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
Twas my wife, gently yapping, yapping at me from the door.
"Tis 4 AM in the morn, what are you doing up?" She implored,
"I've lost control of my life," I muttered. "Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I requite, 'twas but the middle of the night
Suddenly there was a light, which wrought its ghost upon the floor
Somberly I sighed in sorrow, knowing it was almost the morrow,
I spied a girl devoid of sorrow, standing in my bedroom door.
Angelica, not half as tall as any bedroom door,
wished for pudding and nothing more.

And so my soul grew weaker, beginning to feel bleaker,
"Angelica," said I, "I shall do as you implore."
And now here I am stirring, circling, slowly learning,
What it means to be awake at four in the morn
Control, I hold no more.

Deep into the pudding peering, I stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, feeling feels no mortal dared to feel before
But the stirring was unbroken, my silence gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the wretched number "four".
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the number "four",
Only this, and never more.

Inside, my soul was turning,
My heart within me burning,
Soon again I heard the yapping at my kitchen door
"Stu," it spoke, so gently and rasping, beckoning to days of yore,
"Why are you still up, at the hour of four?"
"Why must you be awake at the morning hour of four?"
I've lost control, and nothing more.
I've lost control, for evermore.