Opening the door more widely, Bill leaned against the frame and loosely crossed his arms over his chest. He watched his youngest with a half-formed affectionate smile as she fought wakefulness in a way that was truly her own. "Ah, but see, your eyes I see, so time, you see, then it must be. Awake! Awake! A new day dawns, so full of promise and maybe song- my sweet, sweet Dominique, shall your Daddy sing you to waking, or shall I my leave be taking, to leave you to do your very own waking?"
It wasn't an idol threat, nor was this the first morning he had regaled his daughter with improvised and very silly poetry and awful, awful song. He had a rubbish singing voice, far more suited for atonal pub singing than anything else. Oh, but he would sing his daughter awake, because nothing seemed to make her squirm more than one of his made-up songs- especially if they were about her.
"Brekkie soon," he sing-songed, as though he were about to warm up to the challenge.