The Ballad Of Mr Sloth Poem by Dave SmithWhite

The Ballad Of Mr Sloth



He goes a little crazy in the morning.
He goes a little odd by crack of dawn.
A restless spirit, waking up and yawning,
With a body-clock protesting, gaunt and worn.

'My brain's a twee bit softer before breakfast.
My mind's a little addled and confused.
And then I read the bloggers, and the papers,
And all the swill that passes for the news.

I'm Mr Sloth, not a Hun or Goth;
But a man of note and means.
I'm Mr Sloth, and all who knoweth,
Know nothing worth a can of beans! '

On the shifting scale of epiphanies,
It was right there at the top.
But Mr Sloth was very loath,
To start lest he not stop.
The power of revelation.
Can so exhaust the mind,
And body both.
He swore an oath,
He'd not burn out by grind.

If he chose to work this morning,
It would be - his choice - not yours.
No more this fulsome fawning,
Can't help but give him pause.

For Mister Sloth, could pledge his troth,
To Art, without a sneer.
Though some would joke,
His muse was cloaked;
His soul, a thin veneer.

For Mister Sloth, was short a loaf,
In his fat and greasy sandwich.
A mindless oaf, with arrested growth,
And a barely literate language.

'I need the ample sustenance of lunchtime,
To brace me for the struggles of the day.
To move me from the bedroom to the bathroom,
And compose an epic jingle on the way.

A poet's life can be so tough.
A word – an afternoon!
A tortured mind creates this stuff:
So gray and so jejune'.

For Mr Sloth could never clothe,
His naked greed for mammon.
To be acclaimed with immortal fame:
Stud magnet for young women.

He admits the weird and sleazy.
Before dinner breaks,
The little concentrations of desire.
His wit is seared and easy,
As the summer steaks,
He grills and bastes upon his fiery brier.

'I'm Mr Sloth, in chic sackcloth,
Whatever doth I do.
I'm Mr Sloth, and I foam and froth,
Like a broth of boiling stew.'

He goes a little crazy in the evening.
Just a little madder as night falls.
He gets a little hazy, 'cause he's dreaming,
He's caught between the twilight's sliding walls.

'I'm Mr Sloth; you can fear my wrath,
Or quoth me in yahoo.
I'm Mr Sloth, and I cut a swath,
Whatever doth I do!

I'm Mr Sloth, not a butterfly moth,
With the ethos of make-do.
I'm Mr Sloth, and I promise, betroth:
To my mistress verse, I'm true! '

For Mr Sloth's, no slower than,
His most devoted, attentive fan.
And Mr Sloth, well understands,
As the ingrowth, that is his brain, expands,
That time is close, for the also-rans,
In poetic imbecility!

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Rachel Butler 19 November 2009

'I'm Mr Sloth, and I promise, betroth: To my mistress verse, I'm true! ' Rachel Ann Butler

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