Twenty four hours in a day.
Seven days in a week.
We manage to work and play.
But it's fun we seem to seek.

Thirty days in a month.
Three hundred sixty-five days in a year.
Though we work seemingly too much.
Time off is cause for chear.

Each second passes we are older.
Though at the moment we don't care.
The seconds add and become bolder.
Just as the gray in our hair.

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