So, I speak to the kitchen knife
And I say “hello”
It appears it’s missing
My mother’s hand

I cannot explain to the knife
Where my mother is
I don’t even know myself

So, I ask the kitchen knife
“Have you had much work to do?”
I’m just trying to be nice
I know that it’s had a very long life

-I rummaged about in the drawer
And I pulled out the kitchen knife
It had been there
In the rattle and clank of knives and forks
Since the grandfather clock caught fire
And the cloakroom filled up with schoolboy frogs-

“Cut up anything lately” I asked
Just to shock it a bit
It replied “not in a long time”
It said that it preferred being used for counting garden peas
And told me how it had been left
in a sink full of washing up for years and years

“Where was that?” I asked
“It was in the house of knives”