WARNING: This is a really bad poem about how “attached” a dude can get to a familiar and favorite handle. The Riven Word takes no responsibility for any physical discomfort caused by reading the following verse. That is all.
Ode to a Helve
Whither hast thou gone, my lusty-hearted helve,
Thou art laid low by worms, e’en as once thyself did fell
Oaks great and small, true thou didst cut them round,
And cleanly so to fall, a-quaking to the ground.
Thou wast rived of ash, oak wedges drove secure
Thy heart light and strong, and thy growth rings as pure.
But time did steal thy bloom as it is want to do,
And our quarrels so increase’d, our honey-month, adieu!
As muddy-ale’d drunken swains, thy wedges to and fro,
Did fall about the ground–Oh I did curse them so-
Still we journey’d from frame to frame, together boxing square
Much timber for their knitting, and firewood to spare.
I think of thee most often e’en though I’ve helved anew,
She’s heavy-hearted stuff and hath the humour of a shrew.
For the nonce she holds her wedges, and I for my part keep–
But in my heart and in my hands thy grain it runneth deep.