The Men That Dont Fit In
There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.
Robert W Service
Other author posts
The Ordinary Man
If you and I should chance to meet, I guess you wouldn't care; I'm sure you'd pass me in the As if I wasn't there;
Your Poem
My poem may be yours In melody and tone, If in its rhythm you can readA music of your own; If in its pale woof you can
Book Borrower
I am a mild man, you'll agree, But red my rage is, When folks who borrow books from me Turn down their pages Or when a chap a book I lend, And find he's loaned Without permission to a friend - As if he owned it...
The Ballad Of The Ice-Worm Cocktail
To Dawson Town came Percy Brown from London on the Thames A pane of glass was in his eye, and stockings on his stems Upon the shoulder of his coat a leather pad he wore, To rest his deadly rifle when it wasn't seeking gore;
