No matter how hard you plod on,
It feels there's nothing left to gain
All soaked, cold, and downtrodden.
Onward, into wind, which slaps the face,
Chastening with bluster.
Stronger it seems, with each step and pace,
When strength is hard to muster.
But muster it does, and muster it will,
And masters all had to muster a skill.
Amidst the strain, it's foreboding and bleary,
But the end is in sight, and get there you will.
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