There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin;
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gipsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They re strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.


aus "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote