L. C. FOX-SMITH - 14/09/26 - My wife always gouges the butter out of the middle of the block and makes a hole. For twenty-six years I’ve wondered how a Lady could treat butter like this, then one day she did something unexpected. So I wrote a poem about it. Here is Stupid Butter.
Stupid Butter
She takes the butter from the block,
And digs an ugly hole,
If I’d not seen her knife at work,
I’d swear it was a mole.
There’s really no escaping it,
The dent she’s left for me,
It’s hard to navigate the dip,
It’s all that I can see.
For more than twenty years she’s done
This breakfast crime so dark,
I often wonder why she leaves
This deep and careless mark.
It takes me days to right the wrong,
To put the shape back true,
But one more pop, new toast leaps out,
That hole arrives anew.
One day I sat to eat my toast,
And braced myself to see
That gruesome hole I’d come to loathe,
The one that bothered me.
But to my shock I saw the block,
The top of it was flat,
I stared so long, I could not move,
I must have looked a prat.
But why that day, of all the days,
Did she decide to treat
The butter in our butter dish
With care that seemed so sweet?
It was too smooth; it made me sad
To see her mark no more,
I had to get her chaos back,
The kind that I adore.
I reached across the tabletop,
My butter knife in hand,
I couldn’t really stop myself,
I had to make a stand.
First off, I sliced a corner piece,
I felt my old code change,
Then in the middle plunged my knife,
A crater from close range.
We both looked at the butter block,
The hole I’d put in it,
I’d only tried to bring her back,
But she thought me a twit.
I’d failed to show her that I saw
What she had tried to do,
“You idiot,” she said to me,
I was. She always knew.
L.C. Fox-Smith