What do I care for sorrow,
What if my heart is wrung!
There are words that must be written,
Songs that must be sung. . . .

Defoe lay down in Newgate,
Raleigh went to gaol,
Shakespeare, Dante, many yielded
Under sorrow's flail.

How could a little tinker
Ever hope to sing
Without prison, or, at least,
Grief and suffering. . . .

Travail is a bitter thing,
Let my heart be wrung —
There are words that must be written,
Songs that must be sung.