I'm going to be seventeen in thirty minutes.
Or will I have just completed my seventeenth year?
In twenty nine I hear the ticking,
but I can't hear the minuet.
At twenty five I feel my feet,
they tap as I begin to hum.
In twenty minutes I'll be older,
and the orchestra directs the time.
In his hand the baton is ticking,
and now the tenth minute arrives.
Dressed in black tie, the busybody.
The crescendo begins to rise!
I took to long to look at him,
and as I write the man yells "five!".
In 60 seconds the piece is ending,
but the next concert shall begin.
"Eighteen's too soon!" says the third second,
The second one has not yet arrived,
the first second tells me now to focus,
and the bell shall quiet all my grime!