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...THE BLACK RUNNER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FRAGMENT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: THE GOVERNOR by EDGAR LEE MASTERS JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 12 by EZRA POUND TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND |