When y're up against it, do n't get feelin’ blue;
Somewher’ in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you.
Y'r jes’ a round peg in a squar’, y’ ai n't th’ proper fit;
Keep turnin’, twistin’ every way — an’ rise a little bit.
If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin’ globe we're on,
W'y we'd all begin t’ grouch — then begin t’ yawn;
We'd get dead sick o’ summer without a tech o’ frost,
An’ Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t’ hev’ regardless of th’ cost.
Oh, th’ smell o’ fightin’ powder, that's th’ perfume f'r th’ nose;
Without th’ thorn in hidin’ who'd care t’ pluck th’ Rose?
An’ th’ tears that wet y'r pillo’ at night when y’ go t’ bed,
They'll wash away y'r troubles — an’ y'r sins, tho’ ruby red.
Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin’ a fence
An’ swing that good ol’ we'pon we used t’ call “horse sense ":
Pitch off y'r coat — go at it jes’ like a fightin’ man;
Throw up y'r head — glad y’ ai n't dead —
Then sluice y'r bench — an’ pan!
Say, when y'r up against it, do n't get feelin’ blue;
Ther's room t’ spare, ther's plenty air; ai n't that enough f'r you?
Every bed-rock wash-up ai n't all gold t’ th’ pan,
But life CAN'T be a “failure” if y’ play th’ game a MAN!