Borrrring

The time I ought to have slips through my fingers
And hours disappear alluringly.
Whatever moment I may dislike lingers,
While pleasant days are over too quickly.
I thought the days were long when I was young
But not quite middle age tells me I'm wrong.
Where once time waddled, it has long since sprung,
And only in displeasing is it long.
So why let angry days and boring nights
Maintain their hold upon my sullen mind?
Why let time lovingly count my despites
And countenance the way I am confined?
The answer's what my heart already knew:
Because those few short hours are with you.