The common man wipes his feet on it, a floor mat in his home
Woven into a bowel where his wife\'s fruit does sit, an inverted grass dome
Framing a memory that hangs on the wall, it is the bed of the poor
Feeds the cattle in the stall, thatches the roof above the door
A man created for argument sake, another to scare off the crows
Packing in a crate so things won\'t brake, a broom to brush lint off clothes
Worthless, a common thing, from the vineyard a basket grapes it does hold
Words together anyone can string, but only a poet spins straw into gold