This little failure of a poem came to me in a moment of unrelieved pessimism brought on by catching sight of Tess Kincaid's wonderfully depressing picture . . . here
I come from a long line of "stick-in-the-muds"
My father before me was one
and his father too and the one before that.
Our lineage goes on and on.
You think I'm ashamed that I've got nowhere fast?
Never tried to. Don't see why I should
upset our tradition of failure and loss.
I'm happily stuck-in-the-mud!
I'm told it's genetic and there is no cure
for laziness. Sticks-in the-mud -
(Is that the right plural? Hanged if I care!)
are born with it, cursed by their blood.
The best I can do with the future in mind
is don't do what I would if I could -
which is breed like a rabbit,
a time-wasting habit
for someone stuck deep in the mud.