It's an illness.
And should I, lost and sauntering
Through raucous worlds, be thought
A player in that drama then
I'd call that, well played. Every
Routine cataclysm marked
A notch on that wide belt
Might occasion nothing, scratching.
Yet scripted as I'd have
(Though I never want for scripting,
And well-played again would not.)
I should bear back-breaking burdens,
Count them ill weather, no more.
So weathering, and worrying
And flattering - of course -
I might set that scrawny shoulder
To the gentlest of wheels
And be content.
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