Time poses as a ticking god

Engaged in forward creep,

And is revered by billions

Who rise, work, love and sleep.

But time is mere illusion,

Predictable and crass;

Relaxing on its lounger,

It makes us look an ass.

We race to catch the morning train

And stay late for the boss,

But when we need the slightest break,

Time will not give a toss.

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‘Time passes,’ said the man at our table.

‘People want something new.’ I guess he’s right.

It's the prevailing theory round here.

‘The same old faces,’ opined another;

‘You know, Zelensky. Always wants money.’

And ‘here’ is anywhere, maybe everywhere.

Time passes. All of us know that feeling:

You turn a new page in a calendar

Or put away Christmas decorations.

At cricket...

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This was our time:

A time of fat,

A time of plenty,

Of gluttony, sucked straight from the vat,

And pots of gold in packs of twenty.

A time of excess,

Of haunting, taunting, flaunting,

Of stretching the zeroes to impress;

A time of unrepentant, rabid lust,

A time of cities reduced to dust.

A time of the swine, the plundered mine,

Of hate and anger drunk on wine;

...

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