Music measures four for time,
A beat each second,
It can turn on a dime,
But a missed beat, I reckon,
Is nothing shy of a crime.

A tediously perfect,
Machine tinkered to tick,
Yet it's imperfect,
Because sometimes it will stick...
And that missed beat is a crime.

Call it an ***** or movement,
A heart, brain or gear,
But let's make an improvement,
And don't miss a beat my dear,
It's a crime in any event.

Don't measure your music - it's time spent,
There is no point watching,
Your watch or winding your movement,
The gears, springs, sprockets, and teeth,
Will wear and there is no cent,
That can be spent,
To stop. The slow-
-ing,
Or
Creep-
-ing,
Of your movement, measured music, or
Your time...
Because it's a crime,
To miss a beat.