When the great Welsh clock dickory docked eleventy fourt,
Flugzug down and died.
But you must give credit to that cranberry court,
Not a single Zugger cried.
When their fair King passed from the gray to the golden lands
Singing replaced their tears.
They belted out in a fine appley tune their demands
To the Keeper of the Years.
“You’ve taken the best,” they oh so quietly started,
“That we’ve ever known.
Now empty is his chest,” they sang of their beloved departed,
“And the cherry throne.”
“Keeper dig deep here,” they implored of that half-heart Lord,
“You owe an apricot life.
We’re in need of cheer,” their voices rose and roared,
“And a hero to fight strife.”
“Send us safety and hope,” they pled with a sweet kiwi sadness,
“For we fear we’re without.
We can no longer cope,” the chorus collapsed into madness,
“With love lost to doubt.”
The Keeper turned to the King and asked him what to do.
Flugzug felt a fool’s despair,
For he knew that as failures went, his had struck true –
There’s more to caring than care.