On some days, when I wake up, a headache is in place,
And I feel the throbbing aching somewhere deep behind my face,
As if to fill my head with something not my head they're in a race
Who slightly serve the Algea. I need no such practice trace.
I know I will endure, of course; I'm no terminal case,
At least not for a headache--but we are all in this place
Doomed to find an end at last, a sheet over the face.
But if I wake with a headache, I've not yet left life's race.