Pity the clockmaker
For his time is all spent,
His springs have unsprung
And his cogs are all bent.

His tools are all seconds
Each one has a notch.
His tickers have stopped-
All he does now is watch.

The last thing he did here,
Whilst turning his hand,
Was building an hourglass
Full of pink sand.

Then when it was finished
He lay down and said
“My hour’s now come,
I believe I’m quite dead.”

His winder has wound down,
For this story is true,
And everyone else thinks
It’s about time too.

—

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