With some help from William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand crappy jokes,
While at a desk I sate reclined,
In that blue mood when the day evokes
Much sad thoughts in the mind.
To her layered works did the boss link
The human brain which in me sat;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What mess I’d made of that.
Through pursuits tough, and that lone year,
My career trailed its course;
And ’tis my faith if not my fear
Fate makes the way perforce.
The team around me worked and said,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the dirtiest joke which they made
Brought them a thrill of pleasure.
The budding year spreads out its fan,
To catch all chances fair;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there is purpose there.
If nothing’s chance, if all is meant,
If that’s what Fate is driving at,
Have I got reason to lament
What mess I’ve made of what?