There's an air of gloom in the house,
A sort of feeling of despair.
My wife is muttering and murmuring,
Nearly pulling out her hair.
The sewing machine is silent,
Miles of thread unused,
Our wonderful English language
Is being gently abused.
And I am in the kitchen
Trying to keep a straight face
To laugh could be dangerous
Because I know my place;
This paragon of virtue,
My sweet and lively wife
Has only been and gone and lost
Her fabric cutting knife.
The project is stymied.
No progress can be made
Until she can find that
Blanketty blank blank blade.
There is muttering and murmuring
I think I heard my name
But I'm head down in the kitchen
For once I'm not to blame.
I'm in a state of confusion
Is this the beloved she
Who swears she's all the time
Finding things for me.
Peace at last reigns
The missing object found
Under a pile of fabric
She'd cast on the ground.
There's an air of calm in the house;
She really hasn't lost any face
For that item wasn't lost,
Just temporarily misplaced.
With the wisdom of experience
I wisely do not say
My thoughts on how idols
Sometimes have feet of clay.
