and the found her on a shelf,
In parts and pieces, nothing else.
The clock struck eleven,
her mother would never see her again.
All her prayers were to the air,
It may not be right, but it is fair.
The clock struck ten
And met the detective's coven.
The beards grown thick,
the breath grown rank.
The clock struck nine,
the suspect over the state line.
His odometer turned a bit so fine,
and he gasped relief clear in his mind.
The clock struck eight,
He was in the car, almost too late.
The keys fumbled in his hand,
he hunted around, where he heard them land.
The clock struck seven,
The news was filled, with getting even.
The pronouncements of electric chairs,
and morality learned at county fairs.
The clock struck six,
The rounded up the usual hicks.
Wane faces locked with some strange elixir,
profiles a constant line up fixture.
The clock struck five,
on the news, hoping she was alive.
But in the back a truth be told,
that this one was over, the trail getting old.
The clock struck four,
The ranting head on to deplore.
Talking points he began to spout,
mouthed by the suspect, "She was putting out."
The clock struck three,
Her mother cried, her soul be free.
But that's not what was their usual clash,
The day before, mother called her trash.
The clock struck two,
the cooling air, the settling dew.
Settling, settling an autumn mist,
while bleeding the remains of human grist.
The clock struck one,
His escape had just begun.
He'd done the deed,
He'd had pulled the human weed.
The clock struck none,
With a swift blow, she wasn't anyone.
Just a tape to be rewound,
filler for an endless sound,
of how the world is or that or ought to be,
but her features are now blank.
Nothing to see.
Tick tick tick tick tick
tock tock tock
and I do not mean the purring of a clock.