All Change
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.
Click here for an article on the clocks
Click here for an article on academies
Click here for another article on academies
