The Swiss Army Knife

Ev'ry boy I ever knew had one large goal in life;

To be the owner of a "gen-yoo-wine" Swiss Army Knife.

A Schwinn was pretty nifty and a Twins cap was okay,

and Tonka trucks were valued in a Minnesota way.

But what I wouldn't give for that red handled set of blades;

The mem'ry of my first one at age ten just never fades.

"You'll cut a finger off!" my mother grimly prophesied;

But with my dad I shared a smile (and it was mighty wide.)

I carved upon the elm tree in the front yard and then sped

Over to a friend's house where we whittled down his bed.

I opened up a can of RC Cola with it, too;

Oh, there wasn't anything that beauty couldn't do!

But all our fondest dreams and hopes eventually go bust

And so it happened my dear knife began to slowly rust.

I used some 3-in-1 Oil but the hinges wouldn't budge;

I'd filled the knife with too much dirt and other boyish sludge.

Now that I am older and a veteran of life,

I thought I might give grandsons a bright red Swiss Army Knife.

Their parents wouldn't stand for it, which is a dirty shame –

The grandkids sit around all day with their damn video game.