There once was a man who never ventured out
Of his shut-up room, in his shut-up house
Filled with shut-up crates, boxes and bags,
Stacked high on top of shelves to gather dust.
The man was ill, not sick to the head,
Who always preferred but was not confined to the bed,
For his illness was brought on him by the amount of nag
He was subjected to, for others felt they must.
Every day there was something new
“For you to try, for you to do”
Although the man was quite content
Continuing as he were.
His happiness was a strange sort
Which always transforms, always contorts,
So schedules never fit the man no matter where he went
Even though he’s tried them all before.