The young ones whisper that my hand shakes. Shaking or not, I can still see when someone else's line is wrong.
Old man, how was my lower border today?
Put those eyes to use and check the walls for me. One foreman can't see it all alone.
My hand shakes. My eye doesn't. Not yet.
The young ones whisper that my hand shakes. Shaking or not, I can still see when someone else's line is wrong.

This split brush is useless. And yet fifty years on, no one can throw it out.