The Time Machine Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It must have been a holy man who left
the gadget at my door that governs time.
And using it feels eerily like theft,
which in my eyes sure qualifies as crime.

I use it now to peek and even fly
into the future looking at the sights;
last night I hovered back and had to cry,
it looked so pitiful from lofty heights.

There is a switch that lets a person stay
in case he likes the future goings on.
For me, my many friends, it is a Nay
I'd rather die in my next marathon.