I once had a cleaver with a red handle grip,
Its blade was so shiny with a sharp pointy tip.
Forever estranged in a world worth slicing,
With no blade in hand, it's so less enticing.
Where have you gone, my red handled cleaver,
To find a new home and cut out the fever?
We had some good times, when you were shiny and new,
You sliced through it all, even bone and sinew.
I hope that you find a hand made for dicing,
Perhaps you can teach it about people slicing.
Tell them stories about days from the past,
How we sliced that poor hobo, how he was our last.
I wish you the best, oh red handled blade,
Our time was short, but with bodies we paved.
Gone from me now, without even farewell,
I think I'll head to the mall, to the cutlery sale.