Below you’ll find a simple poem,
About the man who’s always running,
I’ve never asked him where he’s going,
I’ve never looked from where he’s coming.
He’s always late, and always rushed,
I never hear him say excuse me,
The hair he has seems rarely brushed,
The bag he holds bangs on his knee.
I sometimes wonder where he’s going,
What does he have to do right now,
That keeps his life so swiftly blowing,
And makes him faster than the crowd?
But as I watch him run from sight,
I always feel a pang of joy,
That I’m the one whose simple plight,
Keeps my feet in slow employ.