Stop All The Clocks

The Followers ran amok.
They had a smashing time.
Glass, of course, was an easy target.
So windows were first to go.
Then doors. Who needs security now?
What’s yours is theirs. Art
was destroyed. Music mutilated.
Books were ripped apart
and burned. I picture broken rhy
mes gasping on the ground. A loose
page blowing down the road;
a token of their disrespect.
Not a clock was left to tick.
Nor tock. Followers ran amok.
It was no one’s finest hour.


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