It is an art to breathe
the air of discontent
on a day so bright and clear
and clearly heaven sent

And yet we find that stagnant smell
even in the sweetest spring
Nothing ever seems so well
as complaints for everything

It is our right to howl and moan
and stomp these unused feet
which could walk peaceful alone
among the blooming trees

Where is the next great rally cry
to the side of any cause?
I can be a martyr when I die
So long as I never pause

What ocean and what scene?
What new-born bird with wings?
What do these fools even mean?
I haven't time for peaceful things!

A thorn in the deepest place
I scratch to find it every day
But until I win this infernal race
it will not go away