I went to the sassafras tree;
With every step my feet were lead,
Knowing, should I not return soon,
There would be even more to dread.

With tears streaming down my face
Like a mountain thawing in Spring,
My moistened eyes tried to decide
Which vessel of pain I’d bring

Back for a well-deserved switching,
Though this seemed punishment plenty.
Why make a child pick their own doom?
I thought as a cognoscenti

Of switches, which one shall I pick?
A skinny, limber limb that stings?
But if it breaks, I shall return
To pick and face more swats and swings.

I don’t want to get one too wide,
But which is a suitable size?
The one I picked seemed far too big;
I tried not to think of the cries

That I would yelp, unless I could
Find the strength to bite back the pain.
But if I masked how much it hurt,
I might have to pick one again,

Since it was not enough to teach
Me the ills of sin the hard way.
Maybe they thought picking switches
Was the worst torture anyway.