Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

The Quitter

     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.