IT BLOWS NO MAN'S GOOD

Shall my sorrow for one day turn into laughter?
Who is he that has prophesied? You false prophet hold it to yourself.
Have all not developed teeth? Yet teeth development remains a dream to me.
When shall I become a man? When?
Even then manhood is struggle.
I crept and toiled daily for subsistence as though the cursed serpent,
Of cause nothing different from that;
I solicited for arms, truly it were better I never had become a human.
For only but mocking awaited me at every door,
As I tottered and slumped along looking for safety but truly there was nowhere.
The church yard was the only accepted home
With cloudy and whirling face I struggled collapsingly
Help! Help! There was none ready amidst able men.
Oh! Have the hearts of men seized from pity?
And so I sojourned and bore the crucifix alone.
Who else can sing of my song? None I tell you understands the Rub-A-dub of my life;
It is a song meant for vagabonds like me, I am a vagabond.
My song is a song of elegy; it teaches of the agony of my life.
But truly only the victim knows the rhythm of my music.
I am this victim; a marauding and wandering beast
I am cornered by grieves of my life.
Oh! Ye masochist and sadist, you that celebrates my hurt
Remember that he who feels it knows it’s bitterly hard to bear
I craved earnestly for solution still the only remedy is that I must live to bear the ding-dongs.
The sun shines and relaxes to gather momentum
But why is it that I never had a moment of rest for revival of my soul?
All in life have seasons of rest and toil
But why must mine be a perpetual hard lots and bondage.
What is responsible? I am the victim.
Why must I be gnawing at my timid teeth daily?
As though the devil in hade
Shall I but one day have a hand of providence?
Then shall I leap for joy with songs of praise to most High.