The Truth

A little poem, written long ago, about the futility of seeking perfection

Now I tell you, my friend, there ain’t girls without faults;

only those who ignore the bad feelings they’ve got.

And there just ain’t a place of perfection on Earth;

I’d wonder about one that assumed such great worth.

And you can’t write a tale that appeals to all ears;

I’ll be glad if my words bring just one man to tears.

And there won’t be a day when it’s all been explained,

only nights now and then when it just feels that way.