Up Straight

The flower Right must not grow wrong,
The hall of truth must flood—with song;
The mildest word of Logic’s force
Must be like steel upon its course:
That living men catch joy at last
To let religion blow on past,
That fake and false and all unreal
Have not one part in man’s ideal,
That Naught can’t earn a free man’s bow
And Something asks his rising, now!
That Something—in, that will of “I”,
Must be his life-long battle cry,
His marching dream, his words of fight,
His ever-breaking ban of night,
To down the tyrant—fear-born Fate,
And stand, and face the world up straight!

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