The Price of Sharps
I remember when my father gave me
My first penknife, as a lad,
A ritual passed-on from his dad.
“I see you’re growing up, our Davy”
Like me, it was Sheffield made,
With a penny taped upon the blade.
“We always do that – that’s tradition.
You need to give that back to me,
To pay me for the present, see ?
It’s just a silly superstition,
But it’s how it’s always done –
Best to play along, hey, son.”
So now it’s my turn, as the father,
With my boy departing home
To study Greeks and Ancient Rome.
“You’ll have to learn to cook now, rather
Than depending on your mother.
A world of flavours to discover !”
And I gave him a set of knives
With which to peel and dice and chop,
Without a penny taped on top.
It felt at odds with modern lives –
Instead, let’s pass on tools and shears,
And pay them forward, down the years.
Rhyming Couplets 