I hate being late. YES, being late.
It’s
one thing I cannot abide.
I’d
rather be an hour early
Than
to be one minute slow.
Although
I know
The
hurly-burly of
This
hurry scurry world can
Force
delays,
Spread
dismay,
Even
lead to seeds of woe.
Seldom
are there fair excuses
To
recuse such slack convention.
Just
a sad habituation,
One
of seven deadly sins.
Quick
to offer self-defense when
Faced
with fussy admonition.
Spry
with jives and whys and wherefores
Ere
the reprimands begin.
Difficult
to comprehend
Or
hold a grain of empathy
For
those who pose and thumb their nose
At
hints of punctuality.
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