Beaky's Blather

Tick

tock

Drip

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Drop

The clock’s a thief….that will strip your world bare ….

You see….

It’s the meter for time, it is always up there,
on the wall…. its arms moving, in slow semaphore.
You say – “give me a minute” – but you never get more.
tick

…and each second the clock takes a bit more of your life.

tock

Some use all that they’ll get before they are born.

Others eeck it out slowly….until it’s all gone

A clock’s like the postman, who goes round unnoticed…

tick
 with metronome measure it will start with a ‘tick‘
and a balancing ‘tock’ each alternative click.

tock

Like the milkman, the dustmen, the policemen who plod,

things that come round and we never think odd.

A part of the furniture, time is there – round the clock – its all that there is it’s  your little life’s lot.

The clock doesn’t care; it just shows what you’ve used.
It measures time that you take whether bored or amused.

Life is time you’ve applied; the clock is its window.

You look at the clock face when it’s time for your bed.

You will use up its ticks ‘till you wake, or you’re dead.

Time ticks past, it is marching, to the beat of a drum. 

As the clock face stare’s out through the dead of the night,

it pendulums slowly …to the left and the right.

tick

and the clock remains….

Like the widow at the window who stands there and stares,

at her past with its laughter, it’s love and its cares.

It was…

The clock that was watching when she brought her babe home,
it was there, turning slowly as baby had grown. 
Now her husband’s gone too, she would love to just blether,
she has time on her hands now, they’ll not spend together.

But the clock doesn’t pause…it just never has

No friend, more companion… it has to be said,

time will pass on to others and be theirs instead.

They will think it ‘their time’ then, their epoch, their era,

each generation thinks that it’s their timeline forever.

It was yours and your parent’s and others before,

time’s itinerate, a traveller, it’s flighty, a whore.

It’ll be used over, and over, until there’s no more.

when there’ll be one final “tick”,

and the last of the “tock”.

at the end of all time…and the clock’s pen du Lum

when everything’s over, then time’s swing, will be swung.

There will be no more to spend then,

no time left in stock

When there is no time remaining

There’ll be no point to the clock