This is an experimental section where I will periodically post bad imitations of poetry.
Should I ‘gainst careless Fortune war
Like some ill bark that has
Laid her hapless crew on soil far
And supp’d a wat’ry mass?
O! Rather would I gaily sing,
And steel my tender heart,
As lead that claims the smithy’s sting,
And soften’d, owns his smart?
In truth, our hurts are secret cheers,
And grief, no sober cry;
So we, abusing Fate, might sneer,
‘Tis no great thing to sigh.
(Added 16 February 2015)