The kettle whistles plaintively as if it knows it's time for tea but the time is only five past three, far too early and she's the one who put the kettle on but she, went back to sleep leaving me to keep my ears awake until I rise,get up and make a brew.
I don't know what to do, should I make the tea? would she thank me If I woke her with some toast and tea upon a silver coaster? I think not. She's got me wrapped around her little finger,slinging me a crumb or two and leaving me to make the brew. Sod the kettle let it whistle on, she chose the tune,she knows the song,meanwhile this hungry boy is gone to get some coffee and a scone, in a diner down the street.
Let her wake and wonder why the kettle's dry,there is no tea let her wonder what became of me but she, will take it in her stride she's got her pride and that won't slip. I think this as I sip my drink and wonder if she'd ever think just how much'brew a man can take how many tea's a man can make before he cracks.
I keep my back against the wall lest she should fall from a great height and beat me senseless, it would serve me right but this I do not let her know I go to work whistling.