I read the papers every day, and oft encounter tales
which show there's hope for every jay who in life's battle fails.

I've just been reading of a gent who joined the has-been ranks,
at fifty years without a cent, or credit at the banks.

But undismayed he buckled down, refusing to be beat,
and captured fortune and renown; he's now on Easy Street.

Men say that fellows down and out ne'er leave the rocky track,
but facts will show, beyond a doubt, that has-beens do come back.

I know, for I who write this rhyme, when forty-odd years old,
was down and out, without a dime, my whiskers full of mould.

By black disaster I was trounced until it jarred my spine;
I was a failure so pronounced I didn't need a sign.

And after I had soaked my coat, I said (at forty-three),
'I'll see if I can catch the goat that has escaped from me.'

I laboured hard; I strained my dome, to do my daily grind,
until in triumph I came home, my billy-goat behind.

And any man who still has health may with the winners stack,
and have a chance at fame and wealth--for has-beens do come back.