You earnestly plea with precious time to slow down just a bit
So you can accomplish more in your day
Holding tightly to his swinging hands in desperation
To place another second into play

Your attempts to slow him down he finds quite endearing
Smiling at you from his spinning face
Wondering if you even recall your pleas of yesterday
Crying that his hands were stuck in place

Precious time seems to always swiftly fly right past you
When you find you are running late
His hands are spinning round, faster and faster
   Accelerating more, if you hesitate

Precious time slows for no one, nor does he accelerate
He passes by us constantly, the same
Laughing at all the fickle faces there, staring at his hands
Which not a one of them, is able, to tame