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When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
     And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
     To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
     And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
     It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
     You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal,
     Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
     So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
     It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die;
     It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight --
     Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
     All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die,
     It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

Added: 29 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 15 Oct 2008 8:30 PM | Viewed: 5579 times

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