Poem Hunter
TTO ( / Washington State)


The clock, it tells a story-
One look at its tired face-
And a glimpse of both of its hands-
Why those seconds, just simply race...

Tick tocking its continued sounds-
Reminding us that time simply flies-
No it does not sprout feathered wings-
Nor take to the azure-blue skies...

But it moves nonetheless-
And with each day that passes away-
We are another day older-
And out of our youth-filled May...

Out of our heated July...
Rapidly, the clock, it simply ticks away-
Out of the falling leaves of our October-
Into Decembers white-ice chilled days...

'Tempus fugit', all we old timers cry-
Where oh where did all of our minutes go?
Just look at the clocks tired old face-
And its worn hands and you will surely know...

Dedicated To: G.A.C., Phillip, Joe, Bub, Lugh,
Zeike, and Pete.

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