There goes another hour;
We have too many to keep.
To hoard away time and sleep
Ha! But we have the power!
Aye, though the sun may glower
In the evenings he will reap,
His warm gaze will lastly sweep
Amidst each field and flower
And perhaps he is thinking,
Though I cannot tell for sure,
What we think is certain cure
For all the defeats tasted,
People with clocks are clinking:
Another hour wasted.