Knotted Wood

The poem below is the result of reading Robert Frost after haggling with college friends about vocabulary building. As the author, I claim no responsibility for it's haphazard alchemy.

Knotted Wood

Set upon the wood pile
  With the axe and maul a while,
Driving home ill thoughts
  With each swing to a knotted log
Which wouldn’t split so easily, much as
  Her arguments

Funny thing, ever put an
  Axe head on a handle?
Don’t stand it on the chopping log,
  So to push the handle in with maul or mallet,
After paring,
  Wedge it by hand as tight as you are daring,
Then hold all upside down,
  Hammer the handle butt, and the
Axe head will crawl up the neck far as it goes,
  Takes a while,
Like spanking your baby, taps
  To let her know, not harm,
Axes got their own ways, and you wouldn’t know
  Until you saw, or ‘axed’ it, ask heads will talk, and
When the handle’s level inside the head
  Drive in the shim

So I lift again,
  With a high single swing
I can split a two foot log,
  Of pine, fourteen inches if oak
But that’s if she’s knot free
  (I don’t pay for knots, ha ha joke, laugh now)
Yet when she’s as worked up in knots as this bitch,
  She’s a chore,
So I set too like a convict on a chain gang;

So she thinks she knows more words than me
  (Wha-hack!)
But she don’t say much so I guess I’ll see
  (Wha-hack!)
What she has to say about all that today
  (Wha-hack!)
Ain’t one good word good enough anyway?
  (Wha-hack!)
I got my axe and one points sure enough
  (Wha-hack!)
To work on in and cut away through the rough,
  (Wha-hack!)
You can call it a wedge or a blade or a maul,
  (Wha-hack!)
But it won’t change it none of the diff’rence at all
  (Wha-hack!)
One good man with an axe’ll chop through
  (Splits!)
Like no synonym of a spade can do