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     .'    XII    `.
    /               \
   |IX      o      III|
   |      .'  \       |
    \    '     \     /
     `.    VI   V  .'
        `-------'

One and two and three and four and five andOne hundred different ways to draw the line;The hours of the clock are in my handAnd trace a path to five that falls from nine.

Dripping, dripping from my eye is a shine;It falls into a plastic oil pan.They boil it till all that's left is fineWhite grains of salt that glimmer for the man.

I take the clock's two hands and pen a planTo pass around to every piece of time;We'll break the day and circumvent the ban,And practice what was once not yet a crime.

And when we make our move, it's a clean hit;My time and I throw up our hands and quit.

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