What is this life if busy as hell
We have no time to sit and smell?
No time to sit beside the bogs
And smell as long as cats or dogs,
No time to scent when fields we pass
Where some one stopped to drag his ass,
No time to find, as though alone,
Where someone chucked a chicken bone,
No time to ponder every track
Of each deer passing onward, back,
To use your nose to best avail
To search the neighbor’s garbage pail,
No time to sit and contemplate
What each and every neighbor ate.
A poor life this, if busy as hell
We have no time to sit and smell.
I wrote this somewhat iffy poem ages ago—a parody of one of my favorite old poems, “Leisure,” by William Henry Davies— when we had an airedale. We have another dog now, and it still applies.