Time, what of it I say,
When it seems to steal,
All hopes of play today
When work comes first to heal.
The chore of paying our way,
Is what time is for, you know.
So the governments and masses say,
But how would our passions yet grow?
To be or not to be today,
Can have me in a hissy fit.
If all I knew of hope at bay,
Would leave me chaffing at the bit.
Time the bandit, wears a mask,
Concealing the real worth of fun.
Stealing what we would only ask,
When we would laugh and play and run.
Though I can hear the echo now,
A sound not so ancient lost in mire.
Our children having hope, look how,
And finding through love, all that they desire.