Pointed

 

A knife’s a knife’s a knife, says you,

And I will nod and say it’s true,

But Husby never would incline,

To our opinions, yours and mine,

To him it’s much more than a knife,

But a work of art to last your life,

And so he forges all his own,

With wondrous steel and handle—bone,

To me, it matters not the make,

But what ‘feels’ best when cutting cake.

But know before you buy that blade

What it’s worth and how it’s made,

And now I’m getting closer to,

The tale I’d like to tell to you…

 

Jeremih, great, great Grampa,

(A man who fills all us with awe,)

Born in 1825,

(He’d be SO old, were he alive!)

Well he, a settler, moved out west,

Thinking Utah would be best,

But at a time when conflicts raged,

And fights were commonly engaged

‘Tween natives and the settlers there,

And neither likely to foreswear,

Well Jeremiah, able man,

Was asked to guard ‘the best he can’

The quarry, so important that

Without it, walls were pretty flat!

But while ‘Old Jer’ was standing guard,

A man whose reason had been marred,

Decided he would bury deep,

His knife in Jer’s thick skull. “Oh, *bleep*!”

A fellow guard soon saved the day,

The knife-wielding man then ran away,

But left the knife that he had dropped,

(Vowing caution, he’d adopt).

That simple knife turned out to be

Best in shape and quality,

And recognizing its true worth

Jer brought it home for a re-birth,

And with it, he and family

Made meals for all and sund-er-y.

So even though things started bad,

A fine old blade was what they had!

Soooo…

How do you choose a knife that’s right?

Husby’s forge or Grampa’s fight?

 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

 

Next week, because we own a few,

We’ll talk of clothes, join us, won’t you?