Existence Is Not Itself A Good Thing,

With Rue My Heart Is Laden For Golden Friends I Had, For Many A Rose-lipped Maiden And Many A Lightfoot Lad.

Because I Liked You Better Than Suits A Man To Say, It Irked You, And I Promised I'd Throw The Thought Away. To Put The World Between Us We Parted Stiff And Dry: 'farewell,' Said You, 'forget Me.' 'fare Well, I Will,' Said I. If E'er, Where Clover Whitens The Dead Man's Knoll, You Pass, And No Tall Flower To Meet You Starts In The Trefoiled Grass, Halt By The Headstone Shading The Heart You Have Not Stirred, And Say The Lad That Loved You Was One That Kept His Word.

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner With The Handcuffs On His Wrist? And What Has He Been After That They Groan And Shake Their Fists? And Wherefore Is He Wearing Such A Conscience-stricken Air? Oh They're Taking Him To Prison For The Colour Of His Hair.

Wanderers Eastward, Wanderers West, Know You Why You Cannot Rest? 'tis That Every Mother's Son Travails With A Skeleton. Lie Down In The Bed Of Dust; Bear The Fruit That Bear You Must; Bring The Eternal Seed To Light, And Morn Is All The Same As Night.

Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink Your Ale.