You thought the clocks were forward-turning,
You thought the daffs were waiting meekly:
But there are those who, undiscerning,
Are thinking Winter, thinking bleakly –
While you wait for the hollyhocks,
They’re busy turning back the clocks.
How high and blithe it sounds, ‘Academy’:
A puffed-up bird, with regal tongue,
Its eyes are onyx, tar-macadamy,
It feasts itself upon its young –
It makes a shrill, unnerving racket.
Its minder pockets quite a packet.
So while you think the clock is ticking,
And there is sunshine in the offing,
In fact the mechanism’s sticking:
The system’s ill. You hear it coughing.
One size will suit them all, they say –
Ill-fitting, costly, foolish, grey.
You thought the clocks would gain an hour,
You thought the buds were primed and perky:
But now the light is pale, is sour,
And soon it will be downright murky:
While you wait for the flowering phlox,
They’re busy winding down the clocks.
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