Must be slacking,
No need for reacting,
Got my taxes done way ahead of time,
Well, make that six days before the deadline.
Used to wait until the last minute,
For my anxiety to be remitted,
By getting the income-tax envelope postmarked by midnight every April 15th,
Wiping the sweat from my brow in great relief.
Why did I procrastinate for so long,
Pushing it off until tax day was almost gone?
It was something I always did,
A tradition, started when I was a kid.
Maybe I like to live life on the edge,
Pushing the envelope, hanging out on the ledge,
Perhaps that’s a bit of insanity,
Manifested by idiosyncrasy.
Did my taxes last year on April the 8th,
A week early, stopping my forthcoming haste,
Deciding to spare myself some grief,
Giving the pent-up stress a release.
Such a joy I felt,
Feeling my solicitude melt,
Leaving me footloose and fancy-free,
So much a better way to be.
So in 2019, procrastination again became a heavy load,
My waiting for the last minute to take hold,
Less than a week was left,
I again turned into a nervous wreck.
Why allow such melancholy?
Has masochism become my folly,
Dragging my heart so low?
Disquietude has become my foe.
No reason to wait for the end,
I did my taxes on the 9th with a pen.
It’s such cheer to realize the task is done,
Party time has again begun.
I’m even getting a federal refund this year,
Eight dollars and twenty-one cents, enough to buy some beer,
But I had to pay PA some state income tax,
Cancelling out what I was getting back.
Another tax year lies ahead,
Filing next April will leave me once again in the red,
Which is why procrastination rears its ugly head,
Making me wait until the deadline instead.
One-hundred eighty-seven words are left to go,
To make my five-hundred-word quota below.
What else can I write for this tirade in rhyme,
Scouring my brain for something to find?
Spring has sprung,
The grass has risen,
‘Tis now the season,
To get tick-bitten.
How I worry about those nasty nits,
Inspecting my garments whenever I sit,
Making sure no insects are climbing up,
To make a tasty meal of my blood.
Trekking in the woods often as I do,
Is bound to land a tick on my shoe,
Or in my hair if my head is bare,
Which is why a hat I wear.
Once at home after taking off my boots,
Stripping off all the clothes while hoping not to find an arachnid taking root,
I’ll inspect my body from the top of my noggin to the tip of my big toe,
Using a mirror to check my derriere and parts below.
Too much info, you doth say?
Why isn’t that OK?
This just serves as a warning,
To prevent ticks on your skin from boring.
Lyme disease might result,
Which can make one’s life difficult.
Sometimes it’s incurable,
This is not a lot of bull.
Now my quota is met,
This poem is over, but just not yet.
Now every time I feel an itch,
I think a tick is crawling inch by inch.
Thanks for stopping by and for your continued support,
Allowing me to rant and rave with poetic rapport;
Although sometimes it may not rhyme,
I’m glad you decided to take the time.
April 18, 2019 – As an update: I was at Sarobia on Tuesday, hanging out in the Back 40 while looking for the hawks that usually soar by but haven’t in a while. Deciding to trek through to the other side, I glanced down at the fallen tree on which I always sit when photographing in the old field, and happened to see this:
Before taking the next photo, I checked my clothing and found one on my pants, which flew off immediately by no means of its own:
The above nit looked as if it were beckoning me to sit my rump back down. Worse yet, last night I pulled one out from the right side of my head. Now I’m really paranoid all over again, and will be staying out of there for the rest of tick season.