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On her way to work one morning
Down the path alongside the lake
A tender-hearted woman saw a poor half-frozen snake
His pretty colored skin had been all frosted with the dew
"Oh well, " she cried, "I'll take you in and I'll take care of you"
"Take me in, oh, tender woman (yes, come on in)
Take me in, for heaven's sake (yes, come on in)
Take me in, tender woman, " sighed the snake
Now she wrapped him up all cozy in a coverture of silk
And laid him by the fireside with some honey and some milk
Now she hurried home from work that night, as soon she arrived
Now she found that pretty snake she'd taken in had been revived
"Take me in, oh, tender woman (yes, come on in)
Take me in, for heaven's sake (yes, come on in)
Take me in, tender woman, " sighed the snake
Now she clutched him to her bosom, "You're so beautiful, " she cried
"But if I hadn't brought you in by now you might have died"
Now she stroked his pretty skin again and then kissed and held him tight
But instead of saying thanks, that snake gave her a vicious bite (ooh)
"Take me in, oh, tender woman (yes, come on in)
Take me in, for heaven's sake (yes, come on in)
Take me in, tender woman, " sighed the snake
"I saved you, " cried that woman
"And you've bitten me, even why?
And you know your bite is poisonous and now I'm gonna die"
"Oh, shut up, silly woman, " said that reptile with a grin
"Now you knew darn well I was a snake before you brought me in"
"Please take me in, oh, tender woman (yes, come on in)
Take me in, for heaven's sake (yes, come on in)
Take me in, tender woman, " sighed the snake
Sighed the snake
Take me in tender woman
(Come on in you pretty snake, come on in)
Snake, snake (yeah, come on in you pretty snake)
Take me in, tender woman (come on in, yeah, yeah, yeah)
Snake (come on in yeah, yeah, yeah)
Al Wilson.
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If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Rudyard Kipling another smart Indian.
Donald if only you had taken this advice instead of the Yorkshire mans advice to his son, hear all, see all, say nowt, eat all, sup all, pay nowt, and if ever you do owt for nowt do it for thee sen.
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If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Donald IF only.
Rudyard Kipling.
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If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Donald IF.
Rudyard Kipling.
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