The long hand points to the four.
How long must I sit?
I have a pen in my hand and I stare at it.
Sitting, I hear the hand tick some more.
I seem to float on a sluggish sea, far from shore.
Seems there is work to do somewhere I’d rather not get.
Sometimes a bird chirps and the moody feeling momentarily splits,
Only away from this sea of lethargic mood exist the proactive, but I just snore.
Back to the pen, my eyes go,
On I sit, here where the dreary bugs thrive.
Riding on my train of thought is Mr. Dull; the wheels are turning awfully slow.
I see, through half closed eyelids, the dreary bugs lazily dive.
Now hearing the tick I rotate to see the clock, and oh
Gosh, the long hand is on the five.