The Quagmire Of Uncertainty
Is a place of discontent
I’ve visited there occasionally
Though it’s never what I meant.

That dreaded bog is full of doubt
And a hoora muddy sand
There never is a stone or rock
Upon which to stand

It tastes of panic and despair
When you’ve sunk up to your chin
And the dirty water gropes at you
To find the best way in.

At that point, the Quagmire speaks aloud
As the end seems to draw near:
”Could you answer just one question
- Do you really like it here?”

Well of course the answer must be “No!
I want to be set free!
No one could enjoy this place
Whoever they may be.”

And though your words are not that much
They’re real, and now you see
That in a place of doubt and fear
You’ve found some certainty.