Indolent Thought
Aspirations and labor will tire your sinew
And when all the wearying drudgery is through
Some slovenly fool will give you a careless burial
And take charge of your estate – proud and imperial.
This is the thinking of a million languid loafers
Who expect to accede to some easy coffers
When some hardworking fellow of their blood dies,
To drink of their vines as they yield to worms and flies.
While the industrious son prays for father’s long life
The indolent one’s heart is ever filled with inner strife
When the old man’s health flourishes like wild grass,
Wondering why the old fella wants to outlive the stars.
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