I am busy

Oh give me the tiddles
and make me a bath
of strawberry scented soap

Shut up the biddles,
sack the whole lot
or tie them up with rope

Or maybe we all could
just get along;
it could actually be fun, you know

But still there's the glare
of the clock-tick's stare
And working hours are a blow

I've made a nonsense poem
right here--
wickedly inconsistent

From three to four
then three again,
my rhymes are noncommittant

[Musical inters--
intersection;
license brandished for rhyme]

Eleven o'clock blurs
past twelve it occurs
Oh right on the dot, my bedtime!