Hour hands clock back sixty minutes of Autumn
Round about this same of month every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
   sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)

   as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
   feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
   juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits