Answer:
Held firmly in the hands, like a sword it cuts deep. Bloodless strokes, all, then forward we leap.
Inside a burning house, this thing is best to make. And best to make it quickly, before the fire's too much to take.
Plow and hoe, reap and sow, What soon does every farmer grow?
What is the thing which, once poured out, cannot be gathered again?
My teeth are sharp, my back is straight, to cut things up it is my fate.
If lightning strikes an orchestra who is the one most likely to get hit?