That Mr McArthur's looked all over town,
But he won't find me now for I'm off coastward bound.
And I'm trading the smog for some fresh salt sea air
And he'll never catch on that I'm there.

I was once his apprentice, in the clock-making trade,
And the miser made me work for every penny of my wage.
Til he found he could replace me with a clockwork 
machine,
And he threw me right out on the street.

I'm not the type who would grovel and pray
That he deign to recant and permit to stay,
So I cursed him and left and I solemnly swore that he'd 
pay.

Now Mr McArthur has very poor eyes,
And he never did see me when he left work at night.
And once in a while he would forget to check
That his workshop back window was closed.

No I'm not a burglar and I'm no vandal nor.
The old man had to suffer, but I wanted something more:
I wanted him to feel it and know it was me,
And I knew that his clocks were the key.

I sat in his workshop, my thoughts running wild,
For I knew that I'd have him and I knew that I'd do it 
in style.

I tell you that clockwork's a powerful thing;
There's a terrible strength in those tightly wound 
springs.
And a gentleman's pocketwatch stays by his heart,
And that's where the damage can start.

Now I'm no machine but I can work when I choose,
With hands good as any when I've something to prove.
So I stayed up all night among cogs, springs and 
screws,
And I didn't stop till I was through.

I rigged up a watch to do more than just chime ,
And I didn't baulk once at the depth of my crime -
A most perfect invention that still kept immaculate 
time.

The next week a young man stopped by in the shop,
Took a shine to a timepiece and paid on the spot.
He wound it, and wore it, and at 6 on the dot
He came to a messy and permanent stop.

Now Mr McArthur's got blood on his hands,
And he barely made bail, he's a ruined man,
And surely he knows who his downfall was planned by,

It's all worked out like clockwork.