|
Maybe, in spite of their tameless days |
|
Of outcast liberty, |
|
They're sick at heart for the homely ways |
|
Where their gathered brothers be. |
|
***** |
|
Meanwhile, "Blacksheep! Blacksheep!" we cry, |
|
Safe in the inner fold; |
|
And maybe they hear, and wonder why, |
|
And marvel, out in the cold. |
|
—Richard Burton. |
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