I Know What The Caged Bird Feels,

This, This Indeed Is To Be Accursed, For If We Mortals Love, Or If We Sing, We Count Our Joys Not By What We Have, But By What Kept Us From That Perfect Thing.

A Minute To Smile And An Hour To Weep In, A Pint Of Joy To A Peck Of Trouble, And Never A Laugh But The Moans Come Double; And That Is Life!

It's All A Farce, - These Tales They Tell About The Breezes Sighing, And Moans Astir O'er Field And Dell, Because The Year Is Dying.

The Age Is Materialistic. Verse Isn't. I Must Be With The Age, So I Am Writing Prose.

I Know What The Caged Bird Feels, Alas!