There's a race of men who don't fit in
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin
And they roam the world at will.

They range the field, they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of wandering feet
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight up they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they are always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove.
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled
Forgets that his time is past,
Until he stands one day, with a hope gone dead
In the glare of the truth at last.

He's failed, he's failed, he's missed his chance
He has done just things by half,
Life's just been a jolly good joke on him ,
And now's the time to laugh.

Ha! Ha! He is one of the Legion lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone
He's a man who won't fit in.