At the end of the row I stepped on the toe Of an unemployed hoe. It rose in offense And struck me a blow In the seat of my sense. It wasn't to blame But I called it a name. And I must say it dealt Me a blow that I felt Like a malice prepense. You may call me a fool, But was there a rule The weapon should be Turned into a tool? And what do we see? The first tool I step on Turned into a weapon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN ROMNEY MARSH by JOHN DAVIDSON TO MY FATHER by WILLIAM SYDNEY GRAHAM IAMBICUM TRIMETRUM, FR. LETTER TO HARVEY by EDMUND SPENSER WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB by JAMES STEPHENS RIDDLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD GIACINTA by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 11 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |