The Quitter

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,         And Death looks you bang in the eye,         And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle         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, oh, 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 pard!         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 hope's out of sight -         Why, that's the best game of them all!         And though you come out of each gruelling bout,         All broken and beaten and scarred,         Just have one more try - it's dead easy to die,         It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.