Blop, blop, blop!
Time is measured in my kitchen,
By the,
Blop, blop, blop!
Cider slowly fermenting.
Gases gradually expanding out the air-lock.
I know that eventually it will slow,
And when I come to bottling.
There shall only be the
Tock, tock!
Of the kitchen clock,
To remind me of mortality.
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