A metronome scores its lavish knocking,
Beating its hand from side-to-side. I sit
And wonder at the clock, pond'ring at all
The gears inside.

A doodle mounted on my page obscures
The line of work and play. The clicking watch,
The counter-top; the world becomes a hot
And bright display.

Procrastination, they say, is like
A ****; it sprouts, and needs a snip.
If cut early on, it shaln't grow strong -
But then, we lout,

And weeds grow over time to groove
The soul, forming a broad forest of vines
Which snake beneath your feet and move
To snare your thoughts;

And even once the **** is snipped, the vines
Have done their work. Our time is swept beneath
And choked, silently snapped, confined
Beyond the wreath.

We do our best, but time-wasting's no crime.
Is it our nature? None can know. Thus
Only one thing is for certain. We **** our time
And then our time kills us.