I have a little pocket knife, And I take it round the farm, It keeps me out of trouble, And away from any harm. It cuts nigh almost anything, And never bats an eye, And if they saw how I was using it, I’m sure the Swiss would cry. Cause they use it in their army, With its gleaming shiny blade, Their foes look on with wonder, Not surprising they're afraid. With its blade honed to perfection, Cause they treat it with respect, With them its decoration, Seldom used, I would suspect. Now my one in Te Uri, Is a little out of tune, It probably wouldn't cut my tongue, If I used it as a spoon. I probably shouldn't do that, Cause who knows where it has been, It goes from cutting emeries, To something else with shades of green. The boss looks at me funny, When I have something there to hack, And I am working there quite furious, Cause the sharpening is slack.

I promise it a sharpen, While out cutting on the farm, But at home it gets forgotten, But well, it don’t come to no harm. It doubles as a screwdriver, And has a nifty pointy tool, It even opens bottles, So, I do not look a fool. But by far its biggest asset, Is when it keeps me from the shit, And that blunted blade is the one, That helps me out of it. I know it’s not the sharpest, But it’s the best tool in the shed, And when I need to use it, I would use nothing else instead. A Shepherd

My Pocket Knife