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The Sloth

 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.

Poem by Theodore Roethke
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Book: Shattered Sighs