329.

I am not of flesh and blood,
Yet have I many a bone;
No limbs, except one leg,
And can’t stand on that alone.

My friends are many, and dwell
In all lands of the human race;
But they poke my poor nose into the mud,
And shamefully spatter my face.

Thrust me into each other’s ribs,
Stick me in gutter and rut;
I have never a window, and never a door,
Yet I often open and shut.