I was a teenager after a year,
Middle aged by the time I was two.
I’d spend months in a minute chasing a ball
And spent weekends taking a poo.
A scratch on my ears was an hour in heaven
Though it seemed but a second to man.
I wonder if master can feel my time
And pray one of his seconds he can.
It’s nice to know
In this day and age
Time Magazine will
Give you the front page
And give you the title
“Person of the year”
For being perturbed
Where rich people can hear.
Please keep the word mum
‘Cause I did something dumb:
I ordered a clock.
Now at my door, a knock!
I fear my time has come…
Some people with a time machine
Would cure diseases in the past,
Kill Hitler as a baby
To stop the Jews from being gassed,
See what dinosaurs were like
Or build the pyramids.
Some would travel back in time
To relive being kids.
If I had a time machine
I’d go to a monastery
Where people sang Gregorian chant
With ye olde Tomme, Dicke, and Harrye
And play the drum and violin parts
To the Halo menu song.
Some people would go to the future
To cure cancer, but they’re wrong.
If you’re in the bathroom
And a minute passes by
You don’t even notice
That on the other side
The guy outside the bathroom
Has lived 100 years alone
In a near-death state while you
Read your email on your phone.
If you went back in time
To kill Hitler as a baby
You probably should consider
That someone else just maybe
Might go back in time again
This time to kill you
‘Cause you’re a time-traveling baby killer
As far as they knew.
That’s why if you ever
Change history somehow
By traveling to the past
To influence the now
I think it’s important
To leave a detailed letter
Explaining how killing babies
Can make the world better.
When one cannot find the time
To come up with a clever rhyme
Or twist to end a bit of verse
One may perchance become terse.
One may then search and one may find
That a lousy poem they don’t mind,
That stuff can be bad yet still okay
And that’s the tale of my poem today!
We are lazy-eyed romantics
Who, slothful, deign to leer
At sexy ghosts like future, past,
But seldom now or here.
We seek the worldly pleasures
That we, in moments, lack
Knowing we once had them
And hoping they’ll come back.
And like the perfect lover
The present sees us gaze
At a future that will never come
And long-forgotten days
Yet gives us still all that we need,
Supports in every way.
I write so we’ll requite the love
Of the miracle that is Today.
I won’t give you the time of day
‘Cause, of the clock, I’m in the way.
(This line’s just setting up the final rhyme).
You’re the morning-bells’s knocker,
And you’d call me a clock-blocker
Except, of course, you haven’t got the time.