There’s no time for this, mouse;
with every tock and tick not one,
not twelve, but thousands die.
Saving oil, pendulum chains run
with blood, lie-slick, but by and by
those chains will clot, and seize shut.
Doesn’t it see, your cowardly eye,
the geartrains made of tearing gut,
shuddering to an awful close and end?
Gristle and bone gears splinter, but
you will not run down, false friend;
so millions die, in this rich house?
You will be struck, struck down!