The Time in Your Hands

The time in your hands is Chattanooga time
It's Miami time, it's New Orleans time
It's time well-spent in the midst of a spending freeze
And it tastes like beef cubes in soup
And it parades like the Irish on St. Patrick's day
And it waves a flag proudly, does it not?
Doesn't that sound like
The time in your hands?
Doesn't that sound like
The right kind of time?

I'll teach you a little trick
If you move time the right way
And let the light hit the past
In just the right way
It'll look more favorable to you
Than if you clasp it tightly against your palms
Whereas the future looks better
Withheld from the light
And mingled with palm sweat

Judging by the looks of it
I'd say the time in your hands
Is from nineteen ten
Or maybe sometime in the sixties
But definitely not anything past that
Or it would be obsidian time
Which is easily identifiable
But often impossible to see

Luckily you're dealing with a skilled time teller
I tell time what time it is when time can't tell itself
And often I'm only wrong when I want to be
Which is fairly often
But the quantity of times I'm asked to identify time
Is so massive that I'm right more times
Than it seems like I'm wrong

Do you have any tea?
I would love a cup of tea
To go with the time
In your hands
Just be sure not to give me any
Unless I don't ask for it

The time in your hands seems to be getting away from you
Would you like me to kill it?
I brought crossword puzzles
And some cross-stitching
Because crossing is the easiest way to murder time

I don't particularly like the expression 'time after time'
Because as you can see from holding it in your hand
Time doesn't usually proceed anywhere
It just sucks on your thumb and plays with your wedding ring

As far as pets go, it's better than space
But only because it's easier to store
And it doesn't ache the mind as much

And if you need to know when to feed it
Just keep an ear out

You'll find it's all a matter of a timing