Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.

Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive officiously to keep alive.

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat.

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?