I want to stand on the crazy brace,
Or hammer away below,
While Luck waits by with a shining face
So long as the “leader” pans a trace—
But I haven’t the guts to go!
[108]
]I want to be fixed in the same old camp,
And sit by the sandal fire—
I can see it now in the flickering lamp:
It looks like a funeral pyre.
I want to be with the gods of graft,