(The next time you think of doing a half-asked job, remember this poem.)
We found the car beneath the tree.
The steering knuckle broke, said he;
The driver is dead; they say his wife
Will be an invalid for life.
I wonder how the men must feel
Who made that faulty steering wheel.
Perhaps the workman never saw
An indication of the flaw;
Or seeing it, he fancied it
Would not effect his work a bit,
And said, It's good enough to go --
I'll pass it on. They'll never know.
It's not exactly to my best
But it may pass the final test;
And should it break no man can know
It was my hands that made it so
The thing is faulty but perhaps
We'll never hear it when it snaps.
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