Do not kick humbly into that grave fog,

Do not kick humbly into that grave fog,
poor strength should grow and pound at end of play;
rage, rage against the hating of the blood.
Though kind men at their end know faith is clean,
Because their careers had changed no truth they
Do not kick humbly into that grave fog,
grave men, the best sway by, crying how true
Their dreary pleas might have dared in a fresh bay,
rage, rage against the hating of the blood.
mad men who spurned and faced the rose in turn,
And learn, too soon, they shunned it on its way,
Do not kick humbly into that grave fog,
sick men, near dusk, who brave with racking thought
lost dreams could light like fire and be bold,
rage, rage against the hating of the blood.
And you, my friend, there on the insane hill,
scald, aid, me now with your harsh love, I pray.
Do not kick humbly into that grave fog,
rage, rage against the hating of the blood.

Crunch!