Permission

I have applied by email, see?
“Requesting your permission, Ma’am,
To make a Dent in Universe.”
They take a while, I have been told.

Their toll-free number’s not so good.
They play a holding message, see?
They tell you ’bout these other things
That you could do to pass the time.

They tell you clocks are missing cogs.
They tell you you’re the perfect fit.
They tell you you can be the one
Who helps the millions keep their time.

Of course, it’s meaningful and right.
Of course, you make a difference there.
And maybe you should take it up,
Forgetting why you called their desk.

It ain’t for me, though, honestly.
You see, I sent that email, yes?
It’s not to get their go-ahead.
It’s just the cover for my ass.

I’m throwing hammers already.
I throw them daily folded blind.
A few too short, a few too long.
A few too light to be so strong.

But throw I do, and you can too.
And we don’t need permission, see?
We always have those cogless clocks
To fit into in times of need.

And maybe we can steal someday
The pendulum that sways our fate.
And throw it like Olympian cogs:
Around, around, and (ughff) away!

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