From The Start, Each Living Things
From the start, each living thing's Got its own mark upon it. I'd have been a thief and a cheat If I'd not turned out a poet. Scrawny and undersized, Always the hero of the gang, I'd often come back home With my nose bashed in. And when my scared mother saw me, Through bleeding lips I'd murmur: "It's nothing! - I tripped up. I'll be all right tomorrow!" Now that the seething cauldron Of those days has cooled at last, The restlessness and daring Has spilt over into my verse - A glittering heap of words, And each line endlessly Reflecting the bragging and bounce Of an ex-daredevil and bully. I'm still as bold and as proud. Not for me the beaten track. But now my soul's all bloodied, Instead of my face getting bashed. And it's no longer mother I'm telling, But a mob of laughing strangers: "It's nothing! - I tripped up. I'll be all right tomorrow!"