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My Clock
By J. Philip Harris

Tick tock, tick tock the old man clicks his clock. That rude robust bellow of the long and short. Splattering seconds as it pleases. RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, and on and on it goes, a never-ending cycle of cyclic stress syndrome. Oh, the tyranny!!! 
                   SHHH!!!! Do you hear it? The crackle of the old man! It taunts me. It nags me. It’s pleased to watch my whits end. Oh why do your hands strangle me so? 

Tick tock, tick tock the old man clicks his clock.The blundering muses of black wading in and waddling down the river white. You jezebels of Babylon! I long to murder you. I long to see your end. You spread me thin and drive my nerves into an early grave. My tardiness is amusing to you.

RUSH, RUSH, RUSH, RUSH! The aching grin that pushes me onward down the spiral of bleeding hell. My clock.

My Clock

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Clock

The old man clicks my clock!

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