I seem to have been sleeping in,
And so it seems that I begin
Each day a bit behind again,
And I never catch up.
I always have a lot to do,
And I see most of it through,
But I wonder if I screw
It all not getting up.
Such thoughts, of course, for truth depend
Upon the thought that, in the end,
What I do matters, a mind-friend
That may well not bear up,
Because, of course, I merely teach.
Doing, for me, is out of reach,
Else why would it seem that each
Job says to not show up?
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