I know who's scratching at the door. Clock, there's no use yawning. More than boards are loose in the floor? I wasn't born this morning. Beneath your gurgle, Water Tap, I hear the water slither. I know you well, Barometer, and all your inner weather. Soap, you're not all lather, and Cane, you're more than stick. I know who hangs on you, Clothes Hanger. I know you, wicked Wick. I hear your silence, Telephone. I know your meaning, Saw. O wily, absent-minded Fly, I've heard your voice before. I have turned about thrice, blinded the mirror, snipped the end of my laces with a rusty scissors, trod on my shadow, strewn on my pillow three seeds of the fern and a leaf of the willow. Be gone, ogre of the Candle, djinn of the grinning Fire; be gone, harpy of the Lintel, worm of the winding Wire. Cerberus of the Threshold, run howling through the town; imp of the Ingle, shrivel; nymph of the Mirror, drown. Die, demon of the Cupboard; fly, spectre of the Stair; and die, you lean Clock's warden who whispers in my ear. (Copyright © Jean Shapiro Cantu for the Estate of Robert Friend)