Handing out the finer points,
To satiete the needs of the rhyme,
Bending the field to ordinal joints,
Bringing Mr Time in line.
For he needs-must that weedle guts,
That raver, craver of flavour,
That bulbous ticker out his chin juts,
Outrageous keeper, bird-grand-hoarder.
Cough, cough at the damn of clock,
Spurn ye little dogs, oh mortals!
Little does he know the people so mock,
His flagrant, flatulent foibles.
Damn him, damn him, as the clock ran,
Too scared to care, hiding the words he sang,
“Oh little old me, dishing out minute span,
‘Tis the want of the clock to ring and clang!”
“Bother who? Bother me? Some or tother,
Ring, ring, destiny home to mother,
Little old stuck on hands that flutter,
Back and forth goes the time and they all natter!”
The Emergent Sea 