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.
