Verbose chronometry doth mock
Our fervent endeavors to unlock
The secrets of the fleeting hours
That pass by while our spirit sours

In our quest to produce excess
We oft find ourselves in duress
Time is a trickster, a rogue, a jester
Forever eluding our grasp, a perpetual tester

We toil and we strive, we hustle and bustle
But the clock doth tick on, unheeding our muscle
For every hour gained in wakeful pursuit
is naught but enervation for moot

Thus in our paradoxical plight
We must learn to accept or make right
Of the fleeting nature of time’s charade
And find solace in the present, unafraid.