I SHOT AN ARROW

I shot an arrow: how it sang! It was a poisoned arrow! And when it turned, a boomerang, It chilled me to the marrow. I know not where the arrow struck, And care but little whether It came straight back or ran amuck Upon the near-by heather. But this I know; however fast The arrow homeward scurried, My getaway was unsurpassed— For, Goodness, how I hurried!