Sloths so idle and slow,
They barely move at all!
Fireflies blessed with bodies that glow,
Like shooting stars about to fall.
The peacock, wild yet fans his feathers wide and bright;
The grasshopper, fecal-necked though clad in brass;
The bat, blind yet favours to fly at night;
The snake, limbless yet slithers swifter on grass.
The tortoise in her shell forever confined;
The shy but prickly porcupine;
The skunk and her foul-smelling behind;
And dolphin — the water-dwelling Einstein.
Then there’s the wasp — always furious,
humming to himself as he scares intruders away.
And the cat — calm but insidious,
Napping away her nine lives every second of the day.
The soothing beauty of the golden sunset,
Mean gravity good at bringing everybody down;
Pitch darkness, light’s sworn offset;
The sun and moon’s daily showdown.
The winter insect that always travel with his wife;
The first beat of an embryo’s tiny heart;
The mystery and complexity of life;
There sure exists an artist responsible for this art.
I would rather swallow my pride,
And by the “the learned” be branded naive,
Than deny that which no mortal can hide.
There must be a superior being, that I firmly believe.
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