When I was a little Cub Scout
I was taught to handle knives with care
Stay safe while using them
Only use them when permitted

When I was a little Cub Scout
I thought all of this was redundant
Common sense anyone should know
Because who would ever put themself in harm's way?

When I was a little Cub Scout
I didn't quite grasp depression
People who whittle down things
Other than soap bars and sticks

But when I was a Boy Scout
With my very first knife in my hands
And my very first cut on my arm
I understood why these rules were set.

When I was a Boy Scout
That first cut was accidental
But yet something stuck with me
A wandering thought found its home in my head

When I was a Boy Scout
The cuts became less and less accidental
An addiction growing onto me
A desire to feel something