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.”