Whenever the clock strikes three It reminds me of the man that I am not Of the world I have not Yet known, or never will. It reminds me of the dream That I have had since I was six And as the clock strikes more The fear makes home, settles still Was it the cheer of the bells Or illusion of being sleuth of luck The way the walls close in The way I drown with air galore I dread the wicked imbroglio As all the lies have made it so "Mea culpa now let it go!" I cry as the clock strikes four If only I knew of the ruse When I could not even choose If I should pet the bird on my side Or kill the one on windowsill