A Snail in Molasses

Why must you move so slowly?
Why do you drag your feet?
You said “I’m going out now,”
Then stayed right in your seat.

I find this quite frustrating.
Why won’t you just go out?
I get more done without you
Underfoot, you layabout.

I think I see the problem,
You cannot find your way.
So I’ve drawn this handy map for you.
Else you’ll be here all day.

Ode to a Terminal Defeatist

I was sorry to hear that you’re “dying”,
I thought you would go on for years.
Yet halo and wings you are buying,
And angels are soon to be peers.

Now off your mortal coil you will shuffle.
Your bucket will finally be kicked.
Your drum is about to be muffled.
Your bud is about to be nipped.

Do you happen to know when you’re going?
Only you really don’t look all that ill.
It’s just, before you get where you’re going,
Be sure, put my name in your Will...