HURT

(A humorous look at the results of yesterday's arrowhead excursion, with apologies to Trent Reznor and Johnny Cash)

I hurt myself yesterday,
To see if I could feel
In ancient piles of flint
An arrowhead to steal.

The flintshards tore a hole
In my finger tips.
My arms are burned bright red
And achy are my hips.

What on earth have I done,
My dearest friend?
Every joint I have
Screams at me when I bend.

And you can't have them, no!
These treasures from the dirt,
I worked too hard for them
And they made me hurt.

I cut my hands on thorns
And got a spider in my hair
To find a broke-off stem
Its maker did not repair.

Beneath the mud and slime
The arrowheads lie hid
Some of them I found
The rest someone else did.

What on earth have I done
My dearest friend?
Every joint I have
Screams at me when I bend! 
And you can't have them, no!
These treasures from the dirt,
I worked too hard for them
And they made me hurt.

If I could go again
To find points in the dirt;
You know I'd grub some more
Even though it made me hurt.