From the Evening Star, March 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.
Everybody has some fancy he’s compelled to toss aside,
Some little plan for profit or some little point of pride;
Some fond romance that flourished only just to fade away,
As a sigh of disappointment stilled the laughter once so gay.
Everybody has to feel that he is slighted, more or less,
And we’re all lame ducks together, if we only would confess.
The present may seem pleasant, but the pleasure doesn’t last;
The triumph of the moment swiftly fades into the past;
The glory that is ended makes the darkness seem more dense
That is hung about the future like a barrier of suspense.
Everybody has some hope that he is struggling still to clutch;
We are all lame ducks together, though we may not say as much.