I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
If one by one we counted people out
Yes, and even for the past...that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was. Something I can accept. Mistakes made by the self I had to be or was not able to be.
What are we? Young or new? We must be something.