At the end of the row <br />I stepped on the toe <br />Of an unemployed hoe. <br />It rose in offense <br />And struck me a blow <br />In the seat of my sense. <br />It wasn't to blame <br />But I called it a name. <br />And I must say it dealt <br />Me a blow that I felt <br />Like a malice prepense. <br />You may call me a fool, <br />But was there a rule <br />The weapon should be <br />Turned into a tool? <br />And what do we see? <br />The first tool I step on <br />Turned into a weapon.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-objection-to-being-stepped-on/
