Plea of Clarence Darrow

The moving finger writes, and having writ,Moves on; nor all your piety nor witShall lure it back to cancel half a line.Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

"The night my father got meHis mind was not on me;He did not plague his fancyTo muse if I should beThe son you see.

The day my mother bore meShe was a fool and glad,For all the pain I cost her,That she had borne the ladThat borne she had.

My father and my motherOut of the light they lie;The warrant would not find them.And here, 'tis only IShall hang so high.

O let not man rememberThe soul that God forgot.But fetch the county sheriffAnd noose me in a knot,And I will rot.

And so the game is ended,That should not have begun.My father and my motherThey had a likely son,And I have none."

"Impotent pieces in the game He playsUpon this checkerboard of nights and days,Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,And one by one back in the closet lays."

"Now hollow fires burn out to black,And lights are fluttering low:Square your shoulders, lift your packAnd leave your friends and go.O never fear, lads, naught's to dread,Look not left nor right:In all the endless road you treadThere's nothing but the night."

"So I be written in the Book of Love,I do not care about that Book above.Erase my name or write it as you will.So I be written in the Book of Love."