He croaks like a toad,
Slumbering at noon when the day is young
He hates to till the land,
But loves to eat as a glutton.

He sleeps away his present,
And eats away his future,
When the faithful's barns are filled for morrow,
He folds his arms and begs bread
From the crumbs or remains of the diligent

He remains poor, not for lack of money
But from loss of ideas to yield forth some fruits
Place him in the land of milk and honey
He lacks the strength to dig and fetch
Insolence,a sickness,once contracted,
Kills the spirit of work in a man.