For if I got to sail’s end
Upon the glee of life
Should shake the dust
From each thy sword
To battle, ho! Thy fun!
Not of angry blood spilled
In trod battlefield,
Nor in a race of men,
But in thy quest of spiriting
Each bone amidst my quest.
Shake me, again!
For should I not arise
To meet each day with grit,
I should sooner be trampled afoot
Each horse drawing mighty Hades
Crumpled into an unfit mess
Deserveth of lack spent.
So gracefully, then,
I grab thy sword
Clean ‘er pommel to point
Place her not to rest at bay
Amidst cocooning leather bound,
Place her strong within thy grasp
Of ambition and desire for life!