poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

 
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. 

Added: 16 Jan 2002 | Last Read: 9 Jan 2009 2:39 AM | Viewed: 6814 times

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