I'm going to audition for the Speaking Clock
I'm going to audition for the Speaking Clock.
One might well believe that voice too cold,
Too constrained, though efficient;
Though distinct, too distant
To belong to a soul wherein lies feeling.

Not so, for deep in the bowels of some Telecom cavern
She sits smoking cheroots and swigging gin
To the rhythm of an obscure percussionist's din
On the stereo sound of her Walkperson.

Or lying embroiled in the arms so tight
Of a voracious female catamite,
Breaking off to answer the public's call
Aware of the sudden flush to her cheeks that,
At the third stroke, it will be seven forty-two precisely.

She slips through the minutes of days and nights
In a Mogodon world of flashing lights
And large purple bats that dive through the air,
Both halves of her brain in constant collision
Never once upsetting that vocal precision
Whose origins lie in Haselmere or Weston Supermare.

She slips through the seocnds, the minutes, the hours,
Always measured in metre, in timbre and power,
But, by now, it's a chore and she finds it so dull -
It's time to move on, the whole thing's a bore.

And although the gin bottle's hand and full
The regular hours are no fun any more.
In the Telecom dungeon, the privatised stones
Will no longer echo mellifluous tones.
The lights will be dimmed and the shadows will play
On the large purple bats flying up and away.

Will she ever, I wonder, get over the shock?
I'm going to audition for the Speaking Clock.