Seconds drip. Minutes sigh.
The months rush past, the years fly by.
That Ticking, that Tocking
will send you down knocking,
running and crawling and flying back home.
Eyes blurring, speech slurring
your mind can bend, while swirling and whirling
all to the beat of your chain metronome.
A river in work enjoys the bonds that rust,
Find a flow while you labor
you too can dream of dust.
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