was reported by an observant friend
That she took a basket full of clocks
Into the garden and under a shrub rose
Further, that on the stroke of ten am,
Which all the grounded clocks agreed upon,
Her heart burst into her head
And she was dead.
At this precise instant, and to the bewilderment
Of court and coroner, she was, allegedly, dancing,
Being dressed in a neat unfashionable
to be quiet, exact and kind
What little was there left at eighty nine
For Time, a gossip said, to quarrel with?
His dirty little game and waltzing past
All care and custom
planted his noisy minions in the mud.
At which the buried clocks
Rang out for her from underground as one