There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
By Robert Service
The Men That Don’t Fit In: Part 2
Now the Gypsy men who don’t fit in
Many say are fools.
By the world’s standards they never win
They just don’t have the tools.
But theirs is a depth that’s high above
A depth that can’t be touched
By the mediocrity that many love
That doesn’t amount to much.
Their goal is not their own vain rest
After years of meaningless toil.
They’re not content to be the best
At bowing to earthly soil.
They say, “Keep your trophys and trinkets too,
I don’t even want your money.”
Their soul’s desire goes deeper than you
Even though you think they’re funny.
They want Him and what He desires
They’ll join a bigger war
They possess His strength and He never tires
That’s who these men were made for.
Their bodies fade and their hearts grow strong
And their lives appear futile
But deep inside you’ve known all along
Their impact will last awhile.
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood
And they don’t know how to rest
In fact theirs is the blessing of His blood
And they’ll never fail the test.
These souls won’t rest ‘til they rest in Him
And He’s not back and they’re not through.
So these are the men who don’t fit in
And now we invite you too.
Give up your lame and selfish way
And live for something more
‘Cause in the end you don’t want to say,
“I’ve lost all that I’ve stored.”
Don’t despair, oh pathetic man
Put away self-serving sin
Embrace the cross and join our clan
Of men who won’t fit in.
By Ben Deaver
