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.
From reader Allein: “So I was sitting in my boss’s office this morning and he has this poem on his wall, and I thought the folks at your site would enjoy it.” (Photo: Sloth, by michael.culbertson, licensed under CC BY 2.0)