Tick, Tock
Beat, Beat, Beat
The pump begins to churn.
What marvel through the eyes
of the delicate conceiver:
The countdown has begun!
The teeny tick, The tiny tock
of prematurity
Beat, Beat, Beat, Beat
Through time of persistence.
Tick the Tock. The painful clock
of merely adaptation
Becomes the Sun, the centered one
of insubordination.
Beating still, the pump of gold
which marvels eyes of all,
the sight is clear, it knows within
it notices the count.
Dwindling, It's time will fade,
with every single beat.
Time shall cease, eventually
and black will smother gold.
Tick along, Tock the song,
which resonates the beat
Attracting all the shine
which polishes the gold
Beating, Beating, Beating young
when numbers tell the count is old.
84, 94, the count is nearly done.
But have no fear, my golden son,
Your song has just begun!
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Tick, Tock
Beat, Beat, Beat
The pump begins to churn.
What marvel through the eyes
of the delicate conceiver:
The countdown has begun!
The teeny tick, The tiny tock
of prematurity
Beat, Beat, Beat, Beat
Through time of persistence.
Tick the Tock. The painful clock
of merely adaptation
Becomes the Sun, the centered one
of insubordination.
Beating still, the pump of gold
which marvels eyes of all,
the sight is clear, it knows within
it notices the count.
Dwindling, It's time will fade,
with every single beat.
Time shall cease, eventually
and black will smother gold.
Tick along, Tock the song,
which resonates the beat
Attracting all the shine
which polishes the gold
Beating, Beating, Beating young
when numbers tell the count is old.
84, 94, the count is nearly done.
But have no fear, my golden son,
Your song has just begun!
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