The Fray
I fancy a life
In which we’d be blithe
In which you’re my wife
And we shun the scythe
The dire death’s sickle
We shall escape its blow
If only time did trickle
If only it were slow
But though it is flying
Running in a vicious flow
I am hardly trying
‘Gainst its tide I row
Against time I stand
And though I’m only clay
I’ll claim the upper hand
In this long weary fray
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