I gleam in the summer sun;
I am little, I know, but I think I can throw
A man that will weigh a ton.
I send out no challenges bold,
I blow me no vaunting horn,
But foolish is he who treader on me;
He’ll wish he had ne’er been born.
Like the flower of the field, vain man
Goethe forth at the break of day;
But when he shall feel my grip on his heal,
Like the stubble he faded away;
For I lift him high up in the air,
With his heels where his head ought to be,
With a down-coming crash he makes his mash,
And I know he’s clear gone upon me.
I am scorned by the man who buys me,
I am modest and quiet and meek;
Though my talents are few, yet the work that
Has oft made the cellar-door creak.
I’m a canary-colored Republican born,
And a Nihilist fearless I be;
Though the head wear a crown, I would bring
its pride down,
It it sets its proud heel upon me.