There's always crud a'gathering on the sole of every shoe.
Doesn't matter how it got there, what counts is what you do
Do you whine and grumble, do you rant or temper flare?
Do you inspect each piece and grain, or wallow 'it's not fair'
You could, you know, just take a cloth and wipe it clean away
Without a thought, without a care, for the crud has had its day.

The crud it stinks a bit
and gets right up my nose...
Bit tis crap like this
That feeds the growth
And from that comes a rose.