It does not come round in hundreds of thousands of years, 
It comes round in the split of a wink, you will be sitting exactly 
Where you are now and scratching your elbow, the train 
Will be passing exactly as now and saying It does not come round, 
It does not come round, It does not come round, and compactly 
The wheels will mark time on the rails and the bird in the air 
Sit tight in its box and the same bean of coffee be ground 
That is now in the mill and I know what you're going to say 
For all this has happened before, we both have been through the mill, 
Through our Magnus Annus, and now could all but call it a day 
Were it not that scratching your elbow you are too lovely by half 
So that, whatever the rules we might be supposed to obey, 
Our love must extend beyond time because time is itself in arrears 
So this double vision must pass and past and future unite 
And where we were told to kowtow we can snap our fingers and laugh 
And now, as you watch, I will take this selfsame pencil and write: 
It does not come round in hundreds of thousands of years.