Dripping water flows from the clock,
The time long has since slowed,
The hands that once went tock,
Now they rust and erode.

The gears inside the ceased face,
They have long since droned to a halt,
The time which once kept its pace,
Now it sits full of lost fault.

The frame of oak and of pine,
The trim of gold and of steel,
Faded through the hand of time,
To fade and rust and to peel.

The bell which once rung with life,
Now hangs limp and dead on the floor,
The hooks that held it from strife,
Sit broken along side the door.