Admissions of a Sloth

I like to exercise my mind, but how I hate to work. Whatever needs exertion is the action that I shirk. Labor with the brain is fine. I do it all the time. How I love to sit and read or think of words that rhyme. But send me to the bathroom with a brush so that I'll scrub, and I'll barely rub the ring off. Then I'll lie there in the tub. Peek inside; you'll find me, a novel in one hand, resting as I'm soaking in my own little Bubble Land. Clean the oven? What a joke. The most that I can stand is loading up the wash machine (a task that's merely bland). Maybe run the vacuum once a week across the floor, and quickly dab where dust is bad; most stuff I ignore. As my jobs all pile up, housework's even more a chore. Why must work that's physical be such a dreadful bore? My well-ingrained aversion to utilizing muscle does have one exception: at the gym I like to hustle. To kick box is so fun although it makes me sweaty. Step and dance are choreographed. For those I'm always ready. But I wish that just as quickly as from running on a tread I could burn up calories doing workouts in my head!