I’ve always had
A different idea
In my head.
Why make a bed
When you mess it up that night?
Why shovel the snow
When it melts in a while?
Yet, I succumb
And make my bed
And shovel the snow.
But when I’m old
And maybe don’t care so much
Perhaps I’ll stop.
We do an awful lot that
Matters
Only sort of.
Because,
Eventually
It takes care of itself.
Although really,
I feel better
When I do it.
So I guess I'll
Carry on.
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