Poetry In Motion

Squillion seconds are flying,
hear, the tick-tock of the ticker.
your ticky-tacky fantasies,
are ideal routes to early grave.

The reality ain't squiggled,
be wise to,
squint the genuine paths
that reside under naked sun,
before your final dusk.

Where shall your name be engraved?
With the liquor reckoned?
That you had many ladies?
Watch your clock up dear,
lest you expire
before you retire.