There's a race of men that don't fit in, <br /> A race that can't stay still; <br />So they break the hearts of kith and kin, <br /> And they roam the world at will. <br />They range the field and they rove the flood, <br /> And they climb the mountain's crest; <br />Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, <br /> And they don't know how to rest. <br /> <br />If they just went straight they might go far; <br /> They are strong and brave and true; <br />But they're always tired of the things that are, <br /> And they want the strange and new. <br />They say: "Could I find my proper groove, <br /> What a deep mark I would make!" <br />So they chop and change, and each fresh move <br /> Is only a fresh mistake. <br /> <br />And each forgets, as he strips and runs <br /> With a brilliant, fitful pace, <br />It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones <br /> Who win in the lifelong race. <br />And each forgets that his youth has fled, <br /> Forgets that his prime is past, <br />Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, <br /> In the glare of the truth at last. <br /> <br />He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; <br /> He has just done things by half. <br />Life's been a jolly good joke on him, <br /> And now is the time to laugh. <br />Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; <br /> He was never meant to win; <br />He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; <br /> He's a man who won't fit in.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-men-that-don-t-fit-in/
