The Procrastinator's Lullaby. A Poem

THE PROCRASTINATOR'S LULLABY. The letter that I ought to write, and put off day by day, The many tasks I ought to do, the calls I ought to pay, The social favors that I owe, and should return — someway I think of them and yawn — heigh-o-o! I'll wait another day. The poem that I ought to write, the fame I should attain. The laurels that my hands would reach, the name I hope to gain. They urge me, scourge me, beckon me, revile me, but someway I sit and think and yawn — heigh-o-o! I'll wait another day. The little good I ought to do, the poor I ought to aid. The weak I should lend succor to, all in my mind arrayed March angrily and to and fro, I ought to — but someway I sit and dream and yawn — heigh-o-o! I'll wait another day! Since you're my friend — a valued friend — I don't mind telling you, To do 'em all I do intend — the tasks I ought to do — I thought this morning this would be the day, but now, someway, I'm tired; I don't believe— heigh-o-o! I'd better — work — today. The Bismarck Tribune.