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The Tragic Life of a Clock

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There was on the wall
A rounded face
For whom the hours were numbered
He, passing the time
Dreaming of hours remembered

Round and round again
Never stopping
Never ceasing at his workings
For him the time is
Nothing, nothing
But the second hand he’s jerking

But when the time runs out
Stops his ticking
No funeral for this good friend
He is but replaced
By another
Time more important is than death

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