Do not march joyful into that harsh fog,

Do not march joyful into that harsh fog,
base pain should light and shake at end of day;
rage, rage against the yielding of the wheel.
Though keen foes at their end know still is clean,
Because their blades had appeased no love they
Do not march joyful into that harsh fog,
harsh foes, the best rave by, crying how true
Their sorry stunts might have rose in a fresh vale,
rage, rage against the yielding of the wheel.
smart foes who dragged and urged the rose in turn,
And learn, too soon, they failed it on its way,
Do not march joyful into that harsh fog,
grim foes, in fear, who reap with piercing touch
cracked hearts could dance like diamonds and be brave,
rage, rage against the yielding of the wheel.
And you, my muse, there on the dreadful slope,
curse, kiss, me now with your just eye, I pray.
Do not march joyful into that harsh fog,
rage, rage against the yielding of the wheel.

Crunch!