A rant, in rhyme.
By Ken Bora.

I hate changing all the clocks.
I hate standing on a box.
To reach way up upon a wall.
Over my own clutter crawl.
To move a hand a bit one way.
As if to Mother Nature say.
It is not one time, but another.
Methinks the Sunrise has her druthers.
And the Wild Game, of that I thrill.
No Timex glow upon it’s bill
Nor the herdsman with the dairy cow.
An extra hours sleep, how now?