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Poem

In the square of the town, is an old wooden clock
with a movement that only one time has been wound.
You can try to get answers, but no one will talk,
though the rumors of horrible sights still abound.

It was scheduled to start up on All Hallows’ Eve,
and the clockmaker finished his work on the job,
was collecting his tools and preparing to leave,
when a spindle broke loose and it started to throb.

When he opened the door to see what was amiss,
’twas the mainspring went flying and pierced through his chest.
Wretched coil pinned him there with a terrible hiss;
as if that wasn’t bad enough, wait for the rest.

Since the door had been opened, the weights were now free,
and then gravity sent things from bad to much worse,
for the image observers say they can’t unsee
were his arms spinning wildly, like somebody cursed.

The long arms of the clock had been snagged on his shirt,
and the force of the mainspring just dragged them around,
and for thirty long seconds, no eyes could divert,
till his arms came to rest as the weights hit the ground.

When they got him, his arms were at nine and at three;
seems the clock’s strange malfunction was caused by his botch.
As for whom the bell tolls, friend, we all check to see,
but they all look away when they’re winding their watch.

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Lol, my wife says she's sleeping with one eye open tonight...
This was supposed to be for Craig Cornish's contest, but one
never knows where these things are headed. Turns out 
anapestic tetrameter is pretty good for telling yarns.
I hope Terry Flood will approve!

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