Happy is the farmer who plows his furrows straight,
Also his carabao with cud to masticate.
Post meridiem with the moonlight at half past nine--
Plowing is like playing; now he goes home to dine...
I should be like him--always with his world in tune;
No need to work under a hot sun, for the moon
Every so often does provide its gentler boon.
So, strive on; make perfect your own labor of love;
Shirk not from your work. Reward comes from Heav'n above.
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