wins the race, but at
what terrible price?
Such slowness,
when put on
deliberate display
in the face of feigned
urgency, is tantamount
to avarice—to say
nothing
of the wrath which his
steadiness elicits
from believers
in rabbits, aghast,
in the stands.
For success, it turns
out, means little
(or less)
when we flout divine
order and convention
just to get there;
and victory, when eased
from the slack mouth
of complacency,
is a cardinal
offense, not a
finish line to strive for—
much more
awful, at least, as far
as can be gathered
from the dubious
jeers from the
jury of our peers,
than every remaining
deadly sin (including
sloth) all put together.
