How can a clock tick slowly,
When time yet races by?
It's hands taking small steps only,
What makes one walk, one fly.

And if I watched its face all day,
An hour would seem unending.
As if with my mind a trick would play,
A different time to be, pretending.

But at day’s end, both always match,
So by time’s progress I am puzzled.
Their collusion I sometime hope to catch,
Until then, I'm befuzzled.