Given the right number, I become a talking clock after midnight. Teenagers beg their parents for me, that is, when they’re not demanding a car.

made of plastic I may be, some will kill to get to me. With several numbers I'm inscribed, which to the public you should hide. If the link to me is broken, I become merely a token, I'll serve you well if you stay true to paying when my bill is due.

I toll for kings and common men, I sing at six, then noon again. I wake the world, I mourn the dead, a voice of metal, overhead.

The man who made it, didn’t want it. The man who bought it, didn’t need it. The man who used it, didn’t know it. What is it?

A place for your ticker; but not in your chest It holds what you love; and none of the rest More than a house; more than a place Here's where you go; when you return from the chase