over the taps of fingers' dance
she says dinner is ready
giving me the appetizing chance
insanity's remedy!

it's her way to break my spell
of words welled up in stack
this medicine she applies well
poems don't fill the stomach!

till that time all she said
were just bla bla bla
till on the table dinner is laid
wafts the food's aroma!

it finds its target the poet's nostril
shears the strings of thought
a stir in the bowel kills the will
drives me to get the dinner hot!

fingers soon dance on the dinner plough
feed my taste bud with sweet treat
she knows it well don't ask me how
to give me from poetry retreat!