It was half past eleven, then a quarter to twelve,
Then creeped the clock stealthily for a gong beat.
We sit, somewhere lay we, in deep thoughts we delve,
Mind like some clocks did serenade and tweet.
Our stupor, if not turned to a slate’s screen
Is rather enthralled by the darkened bright skies
Or maybe traversed to some grasslands lush green
Calmed, but not really, we shut down our eyes.
Anxious lay some, restless are others, few left baby-like,
Heartless some, broken are others, few lay cold and alone.
What they all really need is to take that darn, lovely bike
And pedal way deep into abysmal abyss with no phone!
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