The test of a man is the fight he makes,
the grit that he daily shows.
The way he stands on his own two feet,
and takes fates numerous blows.
It takes a real man to stand up and cheer,
while some other fellow stares.
It isn't the victory after all,
but the fight that a brother makes.
The man, who's driven against the wall,
and takes the blows of fate,
with his head held high,
bleeding, and bruised, and pale.
He's the man who'll win in the end,
for he isn't afraid to fail.
It's the bumps you get and the jolts you take,
and the shocks that your courage stands.
It's the hours of sorrow and vain regret,
the prizes that escape your hands,
that tests your mettle and proves your worth,
while you make your daily stand.
It isn't the blows you deal,
but the blows you take on this good old earth,
that shows if your stuff is real.
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