A stumbling style, a reckless hope, a swinging at the wind
Sweat forms on my eyebrow as I stop and start again
  Shaking and shattered and shameful, I chase away devils that be
And I punch them one by one, lest they make a punching bag of me.
  All life is a lark and a lesson, and we're lucky to just learn a bit
But we only progress by fighting, and never quitting when we almost quit