Diehards never cry: A poem 

If I lack strength and vigour, I’ll resort to rigour 

I’ll be a hardy stonemason and gravedigger 

I’ll build the future from the past, celebrate the dead 

And let integrity blue-chip the contours of my head 

A tortoise, in a dogfight, depends on its shell 

There can be no bullies in a school with retribution’s bell 

If I’m lost for logic and reason, I’ll let intuition tell 

Conscience is a season that the weather doesn’t sell 

A self’s hard-and-fast rule: fair as a game of pool 

You have your own pocket; there’s no cock and bull 

A cueist bends over the board, a pianist has a stool 

The able handyperson resorts to his own tools 

Faith lives forever, but promises make me shy 

Even if they are untruths, I won’t ask why 

In a proposition of deceit, I won’t fall for the lie 

Even in defeat, brave diehards never cry