Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud,
Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood;
While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace,
Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;”
And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er,
As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore;
When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad.
The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road.
At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late,
And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate;