Done

In all things joyful, tragedy walks behind as a working sorrow;

The sense that life is something an individual can only borrow;

To make of it with choices and into given opportunities wade;

And there washed upon a desert shore was a dirty water bottle;

And upon a bleaching paper inside words were having been writ;

Which the deep seas preserved for the desert sun to nearly fade;

The words I became, I did, I git.