Plug in the kettle, But in your soul, With settled heart beats, Your man is cold. He loves to call bluff And shakes your mind; Poorer than paupers You, fighting blind. Plug in the kettle, Put in again Some assorted teabags Of taste in men. Dunk it in slowly, But it all spews. What's left for yourself What can you do? Fry your tastebuds in Oil from your part, Take out the teabag From your boiled heart.