The Tale of the Nibble-Nail Man

There once was a fellow, a nervous old chap,
Who munched on his nails with a nibble and snap.
From the day he was small, till the day he turned grey,
His teeth chewed his fingers and chomp chomped away.

He gnawed when he worried, he nibbled with fret,
He trimmed with his teeth what the trimmers should get.
His nails they shrank down—just a third of their size!
Crooked and jagged, a fright to the eyes.

Sometimes he’d bite till the flesh peeked through red,
“Oh bugger, it stings!” was the thing that he said.
But still he would chomp, with a nervous delight,
Through the morning, the noon, and the deep of the night.

Then—sixty years later!—he made a great vow:
“I’ll quit biting nails, I’ll be better somehow!”
One hand he rescued, he clipped them with care,
The nails slowly blossomed, neat, even, and fair.

But oh! On one finger (I won’t tell you which),
The habit still lingered, the tiniest glitch.
He’d chew it and gnaw it, unconscious, unseen,
And leave it all ragged, still sore and unclean.

So the moral, dear reader, is tricky but true:
Some habits will follow, no matter what you do.
But progress is progress, so clap for the man—
For a nibble-less hand is a marvellous plan!