So what we cannot dream away,
Or think away,
Or talk away,
We often try to wash away,
And find it works, in part —

For much of what we suffer through,
Or muddle through,
Or stumble through,
Is like a tragedy we view,
And after which, cathart —

Then this one bit of luxury,
Or augury,
Or fantasy,
Is there for our utility,
A smooth among the rough

For what we cannot wish away,
Or push away,
Or wave away,
We still can try to clean away
And that may be

Enough