There’s a queer little town--I wonder if you’ve seen it,--
“Let-some-one-else-do-it” is the name of the place,
And all of the people who’ve lived there for ages,
Their family tree from the Wearies can trace!
The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy,
And almost deserted from morning till noon,
Are “In-just-a-minute”--you’ll see on the lamppost,--
“O-well-there’s-no-hurry,” and “Yes-pretty-soon.”
The principal work that they do in this hamlet,
(There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime),
Is loafing and dozing, but most of the people
Are engaged in the traffic of _just-killing-time_!
I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded;
There are others near by it most wondrous fair;
The roads that lead to them--and each one is open,--
Are “Push,” “Pluck,” and “Ready,” “This minute,” and “Dare.”