This poor Stanley 9 1/2 had a rough life but in his heart I felt life still, crying out for one more chance to tame the tree.
Bruised, abused, rusted, and chipped; I bathed the once proud workman in oil and acid. I scrubbed his nether regions with steel and rock.
Clad in a new coat of black enamel, his bottom buffed and waxed, starving for so long but now his blade hungered anew.
With a glimmer of forgone glory restored Stanley slid across the plank and with barely a whisper ejected translucent cellulose from his throat.
He wears his scars like a warrior's raiment but they do not diminish him for the worth of anyone or anything is their deeds and this Stanley knows.