For every poor, defective soul that wanders
In the dark shades of subjectivity,
For each deluded mind that glibly flounders
In the foul mire of abnormality,
Give us a host who cheerful laughter scatter,
Whose willing hands toil on in love’s sweet right,
Who plant the roses, guide the feet that patter
Around the hearth of happiness at night.
Give us, O God, a race of normal people
Who walk no paths of morbidness apart;
Who dwell not in the bog, nor yet the steeple,
But in the dusty way, the busy mart;
Who like their work, care for the folks about them,
And make each day a thing of joy and song.
This world of our’s could never do without them.
They are the men who make it move along.