The day is long, its prospects dreary, and in this state I’m weak and weary.
I have no drive and no desire; I need something that will inspire.
Of movement and of thoughts I’m leery, yet to my mind there comes a query:
Why should I fall to sloth so dire, when oft I’m moved as by a fire?
I will not yield, I will not bend, I will not dwell on my rear end:
I’ll up! and quit my books! and dance, and muster strength to put on pants.
But soft! what joy! Canst comprehend? When John didst write about The End,
He spoke of beasts with piercing glance, which spent their days in conversance;
Though covered feet and face, ‘tis fact: they have the power to move and act.
Such was my thought, for I didst feel the pow’r to move upon my heel
When donned I pants; my solace cracked; I didst discover what I lacked:
My bonds to break, my wounds to heal—I smiled, and found again my zeal!