FOR know, my girl, there is always the axe
Ready at hand in this latitude,
And how it stings and bites and hacks

When Alphonse the sturdy trees attacks!
So fear, child, to cross him, or play the prude,
For know, my girl, there is always the axe.

See! It shines even now as his hands relax
Their grip with a dread desire imbued
And how it stings and bites and hacks,

And how it rips and cuts and cracks–
Perhaps–in his brain as the foe is pursued!
For know, my girl, there is always the axe.

The giant boles in the forest tracks
Stagger, soul-smitten, when afar it is viewed,
And how it stings and bites and hacks!

Then how, Madelon, should its fearful thwacks
A slender lad like your own elude?
For know, my girl, there is always the axe,
And how it stings! and bites! and hacks!