I refuse to be depressed,
'cause I'm totally obsessed,
with the feeling that I'm really lying.
It's an idea that I detest,
but once gotten off my chest,
I know I'll feel less and less like crying.
I won't yield to grim despair;
I must just grin and bear,
'cause I've other irons in the fire, frying.
If I'm burnt out or I scar,
when my words have turned to char,
it's not because this Smithy's stopped trying.
So life goes on and on,
and I know I'll carry on,
with the hope of a song in my heart.
I know I must be strong,
lest my quest to belong,
is diverted or goes wrong from the start.
By now I think you've guessed,
that life is no idle jest;
what scares us most is not just the fear of dying.
It is the panic and the stress,
of emotions long suppressed;
the narcotic of self-love and self-denying.
With the passing of the days,
I know I'll find a way,
to keep that song singing in my soul.
If my life begins to fray,
at ambition's sad dismay,
there is resource in disarray controlled.
So if you find you're not impressed,
by the things that I express,
and the knot of love between us is untying;
will you not think me a pest,
if I honestly confess,
that my life with you was truly satisfying.
Though there's no objective test,
we must know that we're possessed,
of a love that's true and real and gratifying.
And if we live our lives with zest,
and keep striving for the best,
we cannot lose unless no one is buying.
So as time begins to fade,
I'll keep the promises I made,
to press that song forever to my breast.
And as the closing act is played,
when the bill of death is paid,
my final breath will sing me to my rest.