Shared by Billie Shelton
There is a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still.
So they break the hearts of loved and kin,
And they wrong the world at will.
They range the field and rove the flood,
And they climb the mountains crisp.
Theirs is the curse of gypsy blood and they don't know how to rest.
If they just go straight they might go far,
They are strong and brave and true.
But they are always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
And each forgets as he strips and runs with a brilliant fitful pace,
It is the steady quiet plodding ones that win in the life long race.
She is one of the forgotten, she was never meant to win,
She is a rolling stone, and is spread in the bone,
She is a woman who won't fit in.