The clock knows way too well
Just what I shall be doing
At each bespoken bell
And what I'll be eschewing.
Taking out the trash.
Remembering your breasts.
Converting leaf to ash.
Reordering bequests.
The elm tree knows the time
Just fine. As do the grasses.
I've blown all mine on rhyme,
And still the winter passes.
The robins have returned
With noisy tufted tits.
I wonder what they learned
And where the big hand sits.
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