So anyway, time occasionally gets away from me. And today being Limerick Friday (work with me here), I shall have my revenge.
Time's an illusion, you know
And lunchtime, of course, doubly so--
It so rapidly passes,
Or slow as molasses,
And where did my yesterday go?!?
The telling of time is an art
Take, for instance, the time we're apart:
That time is not reckoned
By hour or by second,
But measured in beats of my heart.
I remember when days used to last,
And a year was impossibly vast;
It seems yesterday morn
When my children were born--
How the hell did they grow up so fast?
My days, though to say so seems trite,
Seem to pass at the speed of--well, light.
If I only could see 'em,
I'd carpe each diem,
But they so quickly pass out of sight.
There--your turn! Time is of the essence!
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Seconds and minutes and days
Seem to pass in a blur or a haze:
You may do what you will,
You can't make 'em stand still.
You will only wind up in a daze.
Time is such a worrying thing
Since you never know what time will bring
Joy and happiness may someday come
But whatever is some can also be none
So we fear what fate might sing.
For what is minutes soon is years
Scores and centuries to remind our fears
Mortality is a thing we try to escape
But we always end up a minute too late
And we all cry watery tears.
I am the mean sheriff of limericks!
I enforce all the rules with quick grim pricks
Of conscience for Cuttles, who has great rebuttals,
But limericks live on in spite of any kind of excuse you might possibly have because the rest of us can’t live without our kicks!
Therefore, here’s my offering for today’s Friday-ish limerick-fest:
The passing of time’s irrefutable,
Marking seconds and hours undisputable.
But our private perception seems prone to deception.
Wish the time clock of life was rebootable!
Our mind is a poor major domo.
It lets early years go by in slow mo,
But as we mature it just speeds up the tour,
And the only thing slow’s our portfolio.
When young, our time flowed like molasses.
Long days dreamed away in tall grasses.
Those sweet memories (‘cept when made to eat peas),
Now time knocks us old poops on our asses!
Oops! Sorry. I didn't post the "repaired version" of the second stanza of the time poem. It should read:
Our mind is a poor major domo.
Early years pass us by, as in slow-mo,
But as we mature it just speeds up the tour,
And the only thing slow’s our portfolio.
(I know, it's not much better, but us limerick sheriffs gotta be picky here. You should see how bad the versions I didn’t post are!)
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