Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Speaking Clock

My watch had stopped, so naturally,
The speaking clock was phoned.
“The time is nineteen forty three,”
It digitally intoned.

Then suddenly I heard a drone
Up in the clear, blue skies.
Alas that I was all alone,
I scarce believed my eyes.

A Wellington, with smoking trail,
Quite obviously hit,
Was trying to dodge, upon its tail
A roaring Messerschmidt.

The pilot veered both left and right,
He circled high and low,
And then they both flew out of sight,
And so I watched them go.

And, as the blazing smoke trails cleared,
I could not understand
How my phone had disappeared
From out my very hand.

And then I gasped again because
The landscape seemed distorted,
The only explanation was
That I’d been nineteen fortied.

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