Balance's a border
The sentimental are prey
But there's no warder
One's foot might lay
A memory's hoarder
One mustn't sway
But their thoughts are to molder
Sleepers of the day
A cry on no shoulder
Whatever's on a tray
He is to be bolder
Man made of clay
Tyranny of an order
Hope comes in rays
Heart's a scolder
Until it strays
When the scroll meets it's folder.