Factory-made and tested, he wears 
escapement where his heart would be; 
seven-day chronometer in sealed case, 
shockproof. Robot ahead of his time.

In youth, he was the one who never 
questioned that the world was round 
or touched to prove the paint was wet.
His monotonous chime today, cliché.

Trusted and ignored, equally, by management, 
he is reliable and unintelligent 
as a lighthouse, the rock on which it stands, 
guarding the Companies stock of hours.

Out and about before the blind of fog 
comes down, he anticipates tree-falls, 
traffic-jams, the driven snow clears a path 
for his car whose battery never runs flat.

He is not caught out by British Summer Time, 
depolarized by jet-lag, nor, so far as 
the oldest man in the works can recall, 
have his grandmothers yet been interred.

Plain fact about him is, his family knows no crises. 
He has the fortune of few friends, 
and, contrary to popular allegations, 
documentary knowledge of his father.