Verse 1
My mother Betty had a knife,
With a handle made of bone.
She’d reach for it to start each meal,
As though it were her own.
Verse 2
She’d peel the potatoes, trim the greens,
And stir the pot awhile.
She’d prod the vegetables in the pan,
Then nod… and gently smile.
Chorus
Oh, Betty’s knife, so old and worn,
It never let her down.
It knew its place in Betty’s hand,
In our little home in town.
It wasn’t gold, it wasn’t grand,
No silver caught the light.
But somehow every meal began…
With Betty’s faithful knife.
Verse 3
The years rolled on, the handle cracked,
The bone gave way at last.
“Just throw it out,” somebody said,
“It’s served its time and passed.”
Verse 4
She shook her head and smiled at us,
“No… that’s the knife for me.”
They fixed the handle, good as new,
As happy as could be.
Bridge
It’s strange the things we carry on,
Long after years have flown.
An old knife to the world outside…
To us, a piece of home.
Final Chorus
Oh, Betty’s knife, so old and worn,
It never let her down.
It knew its place in Betty’s hand,
In our little home in town.
Now every time I smell fresh greens,
Or hear a saucepan sing,
I see my mother by the stove…
And I remember…
Everything.
Lyrics Michael Forty