My, I do believe I'm some form of wizard, A very magician of time itself, Plucking minutes from thin air Gorging on extra hours here and there, Conjuring another ten, twenty, thirty, Sixty even, if it’s worth the risk. I summon thee every morn At the point of fingertip.
Hark! Grandfather clock I keep Condensed on bedside table, Torment me not with incessant wails And bugleman's morning libel, For you take on Cockrell form, But I, the farmer's gun, You may give your waking screams, But they're quelled 'neath farmer's thumb.
I blame you, Father Time, But its seldom your doing alone As in our negotiations, I set the timer on the phone. And though you follow orders, With only good intent, I only wish you'd tardy Or at the very most relent.
So next time morning comes, And you're prepping immense clatter, Just know that I, The man who presses snooze, Who winds the clock, And controls time, Is the master in this matter.