The Ballad of the Speaking Clock
Another of my early teenage poems. My parents have sent me some of their copies.

Some busy people tell the time in such a funny way.
They dial the speaking clock, which says to them the time of day.

It's ME, you see, the speaking clock. It may seem strange to you.
I shut my eyes and hold my nose, and say, "It's five to two."

My job is secret as a spy. Nobody thinks it's me
Who tells you that it's ten to one, or four o'clock, or three.

My name is Tony-- but because I work upon the phone
Some friends of mine have now (I fear) renamed me "Dialling Tone".

And yet, you know, I love my job. While London lies a-sleeping
I read the time-- and only pause to let them hear the bleeping.

I read the time both night and day. I read it very nicely,
And Mother phones to hear me say, "It's eight-fifteen, precisely."

Mine is such a quiet job. There's never any fuss.
To tell the truth, it sometimes gets a bit monotonous.

And so I plan my sweet revenge: the Rebel Speaking Clock,
I'll say the time is something daft to give them all a shock.

I'll tell them that it's dead of night when it's the afternoon.
You'll see them walking down the street clad in pyjamas soon!

And if one day I really get as bored as humans can,
I'll use my Secret Weapon then, my Special Master Plan.

Those fools who want to know the time! I'll take them down a notch.
I'll scream, "Get off the line, you fool, and buy yourself a watch!"