Lyrics
There's a bluebird in my heart that
Wants to get out but I'm too tough for him
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
To let anybody see you
There's a bluebird in my heart that
Wants to get out
But I pour whiskey on him and inhale
Cigarette smoke
And the whores and the bartenders
And the grocery clerks never know that
He's in there
There's a bluebird in my heart that
Wants to get out but I'm too tough for him
I say, Stay down, do you want to mess
Me up? You want to screw up the
Works? You want to blow my book sales in
Europe? There's a bluebird in my heart that
Wants to get out
But I'm too clever, I only let him out
At night sometimes when everybody's asleep
I say, I know that you're there
So don't be sad
Then I put him back
But he's singing a little
In there, I haven't quite let him die
And we sleep together like that
With our secret pact
And it's nice enough to make a man
Weep, but I don't weep, do
You?

A Poison Tree
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

If—
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

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!

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