It is always around midnight when
I sit and contemplate my days
And what better way to say it
Than a poem by Robert Graves:

About midnight my heart began
         To trip again and knock.
The tattered ghost of a tall man
Looked fierce at me as in he ran,
          But fiercer at the clock.

It was, he swore, a long, long while
          Until he'd had the luck
To die and make his domicile
On some ungeographic isle
          Where no hour ever struck.

'But now, you worst of clocks', said he
           'Delayer of all love,
In vengeance I've recrossed the sea
To **** at your machinery
            And give your hands a shove.'

So impotently he groped and peered
           That his whole body shook!
I could not laugh at him; I feared
This was no ghost but my own weird,
           And closer dared not look.