Robinson, running full, thy Father's son
Bright fame, delivered, is near duly won,
but Robinson, my son, why do you run
from here?  Why, Robinson?  Why do you run?

My answer is a sum of parts broken:
I run away from that which I've spoken,
through the woods that are cedar and oaken,
leaving behind a remnant; a token

Because I know little, I become vain
and vanity itself brings on more pain
I run as a stream fed by burning rain
I do, as I'm able, ere slain by Cain


---jrw 10:58pm