The hour twenty two hundred

The hour twenty two hundred
a seemingly meanless hour,
about time for the news
but not late enough for
the weird adverts.
I dread the hour
twenty two hundred,
when the clock ticks over
in it's uniform way,
telling us it's nearly the
end of the day.
The hour twenty two hundred
is when my baby goes away
to rest her sweet head
and in her bed she'll lay,
leaving me to miss her
for another day