The thinkers mind does not stop
It beats on time, the bob drop
a small key winds back fates date
The greeter of  death's great gate
is sitting high with devil cries
and still he works, times fly by

the workers hard hands grow old
the metal inside is cold
circadian days were long
and every minute was spent wrong
this grandfather clock looks broke
from the time he spent awoke

he would work without a halt
hes been built, hes not at fault
a self made product, that's true
hes held together with glue
so with the long passing hours
he slowly lost his  power

The second hand too slow to spin
the clocks sound has grown real dim
the repair men cant heal it
a crack and they cant seal it
they speak like it's only trash
It had a hart, a hart thats now ash