"Sir Time."

It runs and walks.

It never stops.

Wiggles and hops.

Peculiar drops.

.

With big, bold, numbers above my bed,

I build my life through a quartet,

of two, small, jaunty, marching men,

with conic hats upon their heads.

.

At times, they say, its flow is slow.

At other times, it'll laugh and float.

But when you waste it, you'll be gone,

with no such scars and no such home.

.

A little man questioned me once;

"Tell me, big one, can one stop time?"

What a ferocious looking crime.

Sir time guides us, 'and we feel pride'.

.