You will not hear the ticking clock,
For hath the phantom hour loom—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

I hear the vi’lent click. A lock.
All sounds succumb to the raucous boom.
You will not hear the ticking clock.

The shadows one cannot outwalk—
In fear and gloom, they loom and bloom,
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

Where yon might lie in satin frock,
In barren and desolate room—
You will not hear the ticking clock.

The raven squawks its final squawk,
And falls to the ground—we presume—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

Run from Death—to hills and boondocks—
He’ll find you in the spumes and flumes!
You will not hear the ticking clock.
As his frigid hands stir and flock.