A poem by one of my favorites, Robert Service. This always spoke to the side of me that revels in being alone...
The Men That Don't Fit In by: Robert Service
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.
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Reminds me of my dear ole dad may he rest in peace.
ReplyDeleteHis face would light up when he told his stories of his hobo days of riding the rails during the great depression. He lived in many places and had many jobs and the grass was always greener somewhere else.
I couldn't imagine a freer life than riding the rails and living by one's wits.. Something I would have loved to have done!
ReplyDeleteSweet Melissa.
ReplyDeleteCrossroads seem to come and go.... yeah
The gypsy flies from coast to coast,
Knowin' many lovin' none,
Bearin' sorrow havin fun,
But back home He'll always run....
..to sweet Melissa. mmmhmmm...
Freight train, each car looks the same.... all the same
And no one knows the gypsy's name,
No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies,
In all his deepests dreams the gypsy flies.....
..to sweet Melissa.
Again the mornin's come,
Again he's on the run,
Sunbeams shinin' through his hair,
Appearin' not to have a care.
Pick up your gear n' gypsy roll along...
..roll along.
Crossroads, would you ever let him go? ...no, no.
Oh will you hide the dead man's goast?
Or will he lye beneath the plain?
Will his spirit roll away?
But I know that he wont stay...
..without Melissa.
Yes I know that he wont stay...
..without Melissa
Everytime I hear this one by the Allman Brothers I think of my dad.
I can name 8 different states my folks lived plus Montreal where I was born.
I'll bet your Dad had a great life, Lars!
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