Of all the clocks to choose from, I think I like four the best.
Nothing much seems to happen at four, if anything.

Whether it be in the evening or in the morning.
There's a softness to four, a calm before the storm.

It was three that took my mother. Eleven, my father.
I said goodbye to my friend at eight and two once tried to **** me.

Four seems to be waiting for something.
Even in slumber it keeps an eye on me at all times.

I suppose it waits for me. To take its hand before.
And not until I'm ready to go.