Turn this into a 5 stanza poem

‘Before you take me up to bed, will you
tell me a story?”
“Do you actually need me to take you up
to bed?” I asked the boy.
He thought for a moment. Then, with
intense seriousness, “Yes, actually I
think you do. It’s because of, I’ve
finished my homework, and so it’s my
bedtime, and I am a bit scared. Not very
scared. Just a bit. But it is a very big
house, and lots of times the lights don’t
work and it’s a sort of dark.”
I reached over and tousled his hair.
“I can understand that,” I said. “It is a
very big old house.” He nodded. We
were in the kitchen, where it was light
and warm. I put down my magazine on
the kitchen table. “What kind of story
would you like me to tell you?”
“Well,” he said, thoughtfully. “I don’t think
it should be too scary, because then
when I go up to bed, I will just be
thinking about monsters the whole time.
But if it isn’t just a little bit scary then I
won’t be interested. And you make up
scary stories, don’t you? I know she
says that’s what you do.” 
“She exaggerates. I write stories, yes.
Nothing that’s been published, yet,
though. And I write lots of different kinds
of stories.”
“But you do write scary stories?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked up at me from the
shadows by the door, where he was
waiting. “Do you know any stories about
Click-clack the Rattlebag?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Those are the best sorts of stories.”
“Do they tell them at your school?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What’s a Click-clack the Rattlebag
story?”
He was a precocious child, and was
unimpressed by his sister’s boyfriend’s
ignorance. You could see it on his face.
“Everybody knows them.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying not to smile.
He looked at me as if he was trying to
decide whether or not I was pulling his
leg. He said, “I think maybe you should
take me up to my bedroom, and then you can tell me a story before I go to
sleep, but a very not-scary story
because I’ll be up in my bedroom then,
and it’s actually a bit dark up there, too.”
system
Turn this into a 5 stanza poem

‘Before you take me up to bed, will you
tell me a story?”
“Do you actually need me to take you up
to bed?” I asked the boy.
He thought for a moment. Then, with
intense seriousness, “Yes, actually I
think you do. It’s because of, I’ve
finished my homework, and so it’s my
bedtime, and I am a bit scared. Not very
scared. Just a bit. But it is a very big
house, and lots of times the lights don’t
work and it’s a sort of dark.”
I reached over and tousled his hair.
“I can understand that,” I said. “It is a
very big old house.” He nodded. We
were in the kitchen, where it was light
and warm. I put down my magazine on
the kitchen table. “What kind of story
would you like me to tell you?”
“Well,” he said, thoughtfully. “I don’t think
it should be too scary, because then
when I go up to bed, I will just be
thinking about monsters the whole time.
But if it isn’t just a little bit scary then I
won’t be interested. And you make up
scary stories, don’t you? I know she
says that’s what you do.” 
“She exaggerates. I write stories, yes.
Nothing that’s been published, yet,
though. And I write lots of different kinds
of stories.”
“But you do write scary stories?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked up at me from the
shadows by the door, where he was
waiting. “Do you know any stories about
Click-clack the Rattlebag?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Those are the best sorts of stories.”
“Do they tell them at your school?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What’s a Click-clack the Rattlebag
story?”
He was a precocious child, and was
unimpressed by his sister’s boyfriend’s
ignorance. You could see it on his face.
“Everybody knows them.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying not to smile.
He looked at me as if he was trying to
decide whether or not I was pulling his
leg. He said, “I think maybe you should
take me up to my bedroom, and then you can tell me a story before I go to
sleep, but a very not-scary story
because I’ll be up in my bedroom then,
and it’s actually a bit dark up there, too.”
user
In a house, dark and large, we stood,
Before bedtime came, a story he sought.
With a hint of fear, in his voice so small,
He asked for tales, not too scary, but enthralling.

I tousled his hair, understanding his plight,
In the warm kitchen's comforting light.
"What story would you like me to weave?"
I asked, eager to make his fears recede.

He pondered a moment, thoughtful and wise,
"Not too scary, but with a hint of surprise.
You write scary stories, or so they say,
But I'm curious about Click-clack the Rattlebag's way."

I admitted my ignorance, not knowing that lore,
But he insisted it was a tale to explore.
"It's the best kind," he confidently claimed,
With a face unimpressed, his point was framed.

As shadows lingered by the door's embrace,
He urged me to lead him to his sleeping place.
A story, not too scary, he wished to receive,
For his bedroom, too, had darkness to conceive.
assistant
<|system|>
</s>
<|user|>
Turn this into a 5 stanza poem

‘Before you take me up to bed, will you
tell me a story?”
“Do you actually need me to take you up
to bed?” I asked the boy.
He thought for a moment. Then, with
intense seriousness, “Yes, actually I
think you do. It’s because of, I’ve
finished my homework, and so it’s my
bedtime, and I am a bit scared. Not very
scared. Just a bit. But it is a very big
house, and lots of times the lights don’t
work and it’s a sort of dark.”
I reached over and tousled his hair.
“I can understand that,” I said. “It is a
very big old house.” He nodded. We
were in the kitchen, where it was light
and warm. I put down my magazine on
the kitchen table. “What kind of story
would you like me to tell you?”
“Well,” he said, thoughtfully. “I don’t think
it should be too scary, because then
when I go up to bed, I will just be
thinking about monsters the whole time.
But if it isn’t just a little bit scary then I
won’t be interested. And you make up
scary stories, don’t you? I know she
says that’s what you do.” 
“She exaggerates. I write stories, yes.
Nothing that’s been published, yet,
though. And I write lots of different kinds
of stories.”
“But you do write scary stories?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked up at me from the
shadows by the door, where he was
waiting. “Do you know any stories about
Click-clack the Rattlebag?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Those are the best sorts of stories.”
“Do they tell them at your school?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What’s a Click-clack the Rattlebag
story?”
He was a precocious child, and was
unimpressed by his sister’s boyfriend’s
ignorance. You could see it on his face.
“Everybody knows them.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying not to smile.
He looked at me as if he was trying to
decide whether or not I was pulling his
leg. He said, “I think maybe you should
take me up to my bedroom, and then you can tell me a story before I go to
sleep, but a very not-scary story
because I’ll be up in my bedroom then,
and it’s actually a bit dark up there, too.”</s>
<|assistant|>
In a house, dark and large, we stood,
Before bedtime came, a story he sought.
With a hint of fear, in his voice so small,
He asked for tales, not too scary, but enthralling.

I tousled his hair, understanding his plight,
In the warm kitchen's comforting light.
"What story would you like me to weave?"
I asked, eager to make his fears recede.

He pondered a moment, thoughtful and wise,
"Not too scary, but with a hint of surprise.
You write scary stories, or so they say,
But I'm curious about Click-clack the Rattlebag's way."

I admitted my ignorance, not knowing that lore,
But he insisted it was a tale to explore.
"It's the best kind," he confidently claimed,
With a face unimpressed, his point was framed.

As shadows lingered by the door's embrace,
He urged me to lead him to his sleeping place.
A story, not too scary, he wished to receive,
For his bedroom, too, had darkness to conceive.</s>
