Oh happy rumbunctious spoon, You strange crazy moon, Made of finest sheffield steel, Or, plastic with a tacky feel, Full of modern domestic use, And never suffering verbal abuse, You stir, trickle and fold, Porrage thats 4 days old, Oh perfectly formed stirring tool, With more uses than a wooden stool, To dismiss you as another appliance, I will fight with great defiance, Though of your infinite simple pleasure, I cannot continue to write without measure, Of all things that must come to an End, So must my poem of you, my faithful, friend,