the face is silver flashy like the numbers that aren’t there,
the band broad and rich, see the peons gape and stare,
the golden hand, tick tick, sweeps around the oval face,
passing time in circles, wandering around in its casual race,
past the tiny silver moon, past the letters set in gold
the voice of class and culture, a name in years so old,
the flashy watch upon the wrist, the wrist upon the arm,
the watch itself a sentinel, a self-contained alarm
as perfect clarity of sound rings out, a message to the ear,
another sign of dignity, another passing year
of the watch that changes hands, a symbol of high class,
an economic sign of taste, gold so much more than brass,
drawing high the compliments, captivating eyes,
watch that tells not time nor date, not a great surprise.