If you have a grudge against a man—some fancied wrong—you blame,
Would it not be far better to face him with the same,
Than to follow him in silence, like a blood-hound on a track,
And when you get him cornered to stab him in the back?
Perhaps you may be sensitive, and think because you've erred,
Your friend has ceased to love you—your heart is strangely stirred,
When you're the one that's kicking like an enraged jumping-jack,
And before you are aware of it you've stabbed him in the back.
We do not moan you've struck a blow in anger or in strife,
With a sharp-pointed dagger or a murderer's keen knife,
But in your exasperation, by some sleight-handed knack,
Your tongue was used, instead thereof, to stab him in the back.
If you would be more merciful to all, be kind and true,
You must try to do by others as you'd have them do by you,
And if a friend unthinkingly should give your nose a whack,
Just hit him square between the eyes—don't stab him in the back.