I Remember Little Of The

This Is The Law Of The Yukon, That Only The Strong Shall Thrive; That Surely The Weak Shall Perish, And Only The Fit Survive.

It Isn't The Mountain Ahead That Wears You Out; It's The Grain Of Sand In Your Shoe.

Write Verse, Not Poetry. The Public Wants Verse. If You Have A Talent For Poetry, Then Don't By Any Means Mother It, But Try Your Hand At Verse.

The Lonely Sunsets Flare Forlorn Down Valleys Dreadly Desolate; The Lonely Mountains Soar In Scorn As Still As Death, As Stern As Fate.

There's A Race Of Men That Don't Fit In, A Race That Can't Sit Still; So They Break The Hearts Of Kith And Kin, And They Roam The World At Will. They Range The Field And Rove The Flood, And They Climb The Mountain's Crest; Their's Is The Curse Of The Gypsy Blood, And They Don't Know How To Rest.