When does the clock ever stop ticking?
Certainly not for a new plot of ground,
Or a stream of blood ever so slowly trickling,
The gears continue to go round and round.
They never do seem to grow weary with time,
Besides the groaning of their ridged sides.
Each one is a skilled and learned mime,
Looking to another to find where hope resides.
And the cogs with their never-ending toil,
By chance falling out of their assigned lines,
Only to be met by a cold and harsh coil,
Forced to strain their narrow spines.
These slaves to the passing of the day,
These servants to the coming of the night,
They do not expect any sort of fair pay,
They only know of a new hour's plight.