They say that people who routinely put things off
Are mostly perfectionists (cough, cough)
Who are afraid
Of committing to wade
Into that big swamp
Where the frisky gators chomp,
Where uncertain wrestling
Presents the distressing
Prospect of possible flopping.
How pleasant, then to be stopping
And waiting
And contemplating
Despite the fact that what is needed
Is something more like rushing unheeded
Into the murky slime
Tackling, perhaps, one gator at a time,
Probably starting first
With the one who looks like the worst.
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