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 Let laureates sing with rapturous swing
Of the wonder and glory of work;
Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach
The indolent wretches who shirk.
No doubt they are right: in the stress of the fight It's the slackers who go to the wall; So though it's my shame I perversely proclaim It's fine to do nothing at all.
It's fine to recline on the flat of one's spine, With never a thought in one's head: It's lovely to le staring up at the sky When others are earning their bread.
It's great to feel one with the soil and the sun, Drowned deep in the grasses so tall; Oh it's noble to sweat, pounds and dollars to get, But - it's grand to do nothing at all.
So sing to the praise of the fellows who laze Instead of lambasting the soil; The vagabonds gay who lounge by the way, Conscientious objectors to toil.
But lest you should think, by this spatter of ink, The Muses still hold me in thrall, I'll round out my rhyme, and (until the next time) Work like hell - doing nothing at all.

by Robert William Service
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