TWO lanes diverged in an urban hood,
one marked ''fast,'' the other ''slow,''
and as a young man, there I stood,
imagining Frost in his yellow wood,
before deciding which way to go

At last, I chose the slower lane.
Why rush toward one's mortal fate?
I had no wife yet to complain,
No faster friends to drive insane,
and as for death, why not be late?

Indeed, the final rendezvous
imparts no virtue to the fast.
Tardiness alone will do.
Besides I know this much is true:
Only nice guys finish last.

(See ''The Road Not Taken'' by Robert Frost.)