When in the crawlspace my knife to go sought,
I summoned up remembrance of its past.
I sighed the lack of many things I ought
To learnt from woes I've wailed my dear life’s waste.
Then did I try and try, fearing to go
Where precious Knife hid in Big Bertha’s blight.
I wept afresh my long since cancelled hope,
And moaned the expense of my many plights.
But ere I grieved for my poor knife-be-gone,
I found a broom to pull the poor thing o'er.
This sad account, this long-protracted moan,
Ended more happily than those before.
And was acknowledged by Courtney, dear friend.
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
P.S. That last line means I got the camera. See?
My knife in the lamplight.
Oh, and Dad? The bag is okay, too...
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