It started with a knife,
light chopping. Hunting for a seam.
Up on the counter now,
cleaving more vigorously.

It stood fast,
hardened hairy shell
mocking me bitterly.

I went from a chop
to a stab,
the knife bent
and it rolled off with a laugh.

Away I stormed,
with one thing in mind.
I returned and in my claw
was a hammer of the same kind.

Poised again, the countertop
now begging me to stop,
I started to swing and
it was more effective than the chops.

A crack here, a glancing blow.
Water splashed out
to and fro.

When at last I found a seam
just large enough to
force my fingers between.

With a mighty grunt and roar,
finally in twain;
the fortified fruit I tore.

Sweating and bleeding I sighed,
no wonder people stranded
on deserted islands die.