Once I was in England, and happened to encounter the carpenter’s ire,
He was struggling to get out of the lot of poverty, with all mighty,
He woke up every day at dawn, pushing the plane throughout a day,
He liked no stories when working, as Europe’s economy is no joke,
It needs toughness of mind, soul and muscles, hence his work ethos,
His wife covered no space in his hearty, as she was only a cost center
He like not eating all the time, foodiusness weakens the wallet anyhow,
He liked not whistling as he pushed nails into the wood,
He detested lest doing it makes him look like a *****,
His son often played around, when he was working
One day the heaps of sawdust covered up his claw-hammer,
He thought his boy had stolen it, to pawn for candies
At the notorious Jewish shop in the neighborhood,
But in contrast the lad said he knows not,
Where the hammer was, he did not take it,
Carpenter’s ire went fluvial, amokish age,
He sledge hammered his son to death,
Only to discover the hammer
Was underneath saw dust
Where he wanted to hide
The cadaver of his son.