I could not dig, I dared not rob,
And so I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue,
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale will serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?
Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936)
(I reserve the write *cough* right to do poems when I am feeling lazy, busy, uninspired or crap).
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There’s a sign (and spelling) of a man that rights for a living!
Which were you feeling? All of the above?
Cripes. A combination of all of them, and a couple of beers, as I recall.
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