Exhibits a truly uncanny objection
To keeping an accurate count of the time;
In the matter of speed it's a regular sprinter;
Repairs are a farce; it invariably gains;
And in Spring and in Autumn, in Summer and Winter
Precision it never attains.
Mathematics to me are a terrible trial,
They plague me in age as they floored me in youth,
Or I might, when observing the hour on my dial,
Allow for the error and guess at the truth.