Sometimes, when my mom is whomping me at cribbage and I'm sure to be skunked, she'll mockingly recite poetry at me.
"To fight and to fight when hope's out of site, that's the best game of all! Mwahahahah!" - Sue Anderson
Here's the rest of the poem for your enjoyment. Happy Saturn, hope you folks in Madison enjoyed that fake tornado warning (snownado?!). I'll be down there soooon!
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 battered and scarred,
Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.
-Robert Service, Rhymes of a Rolling Stone |
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