A thousand stings a day do we receive;

and reaching out, a loving grasp on knife

we lay--whose very blade a throat would reave

of one too dear: a threat upon their life.

Escape may seem the answer; we then may

desert--but futile though our actions look,

in heart of hearts we know there's not a day

would hold less pain than all the pain we brook.

Too painful, watching lonesome plight, to hide

or turn away; to help them stand or lie

brings likewise misery. They then confide

to us our worth to them; we smile and sigh.

For though we're stung, and other knives yet pierce,

through pain we friendship forge, true and fierce.