In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;

And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard--

A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
He'll sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.

Added: on April 10th, 2005 at 1:59 AM | Viewed: 4049 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Theodore Roethke
Poem: The Sloth

Poem of the Day on:
Apr 2 2008

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