after clock stops,
it’s six ways to Sunday.
the ball has dropped;
this runaway’s run
out of runway.
empty out the plot,
no sundries on Monday.
it’s the small things
that tell-all talk,
it’ll ruin you one day.
perish the thought,
we die for Someday.
all things carried bought;
stopwatch to time,
it’s “mayday, mayday.”