A dilatory brachiator,
abhorring now, adoring later,
the sloth’s as slow as carbon dating or
the elevator you’ve been waiting for.
He holds so still he seems to vanish;
His limbs are lank, orangutanish.
Our days are blurs and blurry, whereas
he takes his ease and thinks in eras.
One vice alone among the seven
has namesakes loafing close to heaven.
For Pride’s the prelude to a fall,
Lust, that fire, devours all,
and Gluttony, Envy, Wrath and Greed
make fools of us at greater speed.
Be slothful, then: it wouldn’t hurt you
to learn at last which sin’s a virtue.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ed Shacklee would be
pleased to hear from you.