Sit a spell. You can wring
The neck of the dawn—pluck
All the fluff from its skin.
What to do once time’s dead?
Cook up a nice fat noon,
The sun an egg too bright
To look at, fun to bite.
And once all our time’s gone?
Rinse our lips with cold wind,
And nip the frost for mints.
Go home full. Say, Good night.
