It runs and walks.
It never stops.
Wiggles and hops.
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'.