Her words were kittens with teasing tails
and his were puppies on playful paws;
it was all fun and games and happy trails
until Nature bared its fangs and claws.
Procrastination is a lax lap pet
who wallows in your idle time,
making sand of you— sand heavy and wet
with kitty litter, clay, and lime.
When you try to rise, you only sigh,
feeling there is always time tomorrow,
but then the hours fly, by and by,
and so now you’ve only time to borrow.
Settled in like sand in the hourglass
which gravity helps to slide down
all you do is wait while the hours pass
and lounge until turned upside down.
And the limp lap pet lingers still,
never feeling need or desire or haste,
nor anything similar to an effective will;
it is all just kitty litter— all just so much waste.
I once thought myself shoulder to shoulder
with gold-laureled poets of the past,
and though such pretenses made me bolder,
the delusions never could last.
Now I see where I stand among the giants
and among the masses as they teem—
underfoot, trammeled, my last defiance
but to lay down and die for my dream.