The final clock

As this sorry book draws to a close
Let us pause awhile and reflect
What is the truth — who knows?
At least it should get some respect.

There's a lot of mad women about
They write a whole lot of words
But of one thing there can be no doubt
Their theories are for the birds.

Men are frequently insecure
It can make them strange and eccentric
Of meaning profoundly unsure
Though their discourse is phallogocentric.

As the laughter fades to cheese
Half a book can seem like years
Here's a list of cast and crew
Boil them up into a stew.

The morning didn't start, the noon was noonless
And after it got dark, the night was moonless
The sundial needed winding, the final clock
Was slain; Time burbled like a jabberwock.

That is illogical, Captain, and so are the mome raths.