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QUATRAINS
One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar, To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee — the choice is thine, is thine, To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.
I answered Her: The choice is mine — ah, no! We all were made or marred long, long ago. The parts are written; hear the super wail: "Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"
Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance, Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance. From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance."
Chance! Oh, there is no chance! The scene is set. Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette, Resumes his part. The gods will work the wires. They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!