I've often watched you, centipede,
And I can't think however
You manage those long rows of feet --
You must be very clever.
You seem to do it all so pat,
Without a slip or jumble;
If I could play my scales like that
Mamma would never grumble.
Compared with you I feel a dunce,
But then, of course, it may be
You did not learn it all at once
When you were but a baby,
So I may hope, dear centipede,
That there's a good day coming,
When I shall play long runs with speed
Instead of slowly strumming.
Edith L. M. King, "The centipede".