When you're lost in the wild, and you're scared as a child, and death looks you bang in the eye,

and your sore is a boil that's according to oil 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, 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 part.

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 hopes out of sight?

Why, that's the best game of them all.

And though you come out of each grueling bout, all broken and beaten and scarred,

just have one more try. Instead, easy to die.

It's the keeping on living. That's hard.

When you get what you want and your struggle for self,

and the world makes you king for a day, just go to the mirror and look at yourself,

and see what that man has to say.

...