"saucepan" poems
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.
the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.
the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!
oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
i'm not a master,
i'm no man.
snot drips from the nostril,
the sizzle grips the saucepan.
static head in the negative degree,
below freezing weather, i do believe.
stone cold stare at the fire ablaze,
blood boil, bubble bath and turmoil,
death to the royals.
potbellies to the gifted,
flight or fight feelings for the lesser.
lack of passion, slow moving action.
caught in the eye of abstraction,
I lost my bond with reality.
sneeze out the cake batter,
dimmed lights-
I'm in in my corner.
the last in line,
a faster pace raced in my mind.
blurred vision,
motionless mission.
still, the snot drips as
time slips through my
failed finger tips.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.
I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.
I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.
I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."
Eventually, we were both satisfied.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
Hard boiled eggs.
Fill the saucepan
up with water;
boil and boil
till everything is dry;
then run
the cold tap
so that
the inferno
cools down.
Peel
gently,
add
salt and pepper
and
devour.
A
gastronomical
delight
for
anyone
in
a garret.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC
Stagecoach trundled, rutting, wheels
Soily grasp, grabbing at the earthy recipe
Cart....horsing around the outdoorsiness
Ferris wheel spun, gathering passengers
To overlook the show ground, smattered
Four legged races, saddled with encumbents
Bobbing in display formation. Far above
I caught sight of circular ribbons emblazoned
Lapels holding onto prize winners, suffering
The pin ***** jabbing at willing winners
Left foot first, hopscotch to the flap of tarpaulin
Billowing their precious overgrown greatness
Of perfect vegetalia, proud, excessive....of the
Dinner plate variety. Don't touch their polished
Surface, they deliberately await photographic
Validation; future growers, challenging champion
Chompers, terrorising super-veggie heros
I wonder what becomes of former ground growers
Do they take a back stage bow? Uprooted with
Those of a lesser kind, jostling for saucepan space
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Don’t eat chicken noodle soup from a saucepan leaned back in a recliner
because your neighbor could hit his wife in the back of the head
with a cue ball and the cops might siren down your street
causing you to flinch and spill hot broth on your
chest; I have a bone to pick with the coward.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:48 AM UTC
I could hear her laughing
On the other side of the darkness
The echoes resonate in my ear
I float there like a carcass
Unable to produce an explanation
There's a certain sharpness
'Where's it coming from?'
I grab my ears like a harness
Pulling at it like a parachute.
I could hear her laughing
On the other side of the darkness
She takes the easy path in
Leaving me in an utter dark mess.
I could hear her laughing
The constant laughing like a kid
Wind escaping me, gasping,
She is a saucepan without a lid
Constant reverberations of laughter
Maybe she came to find her happiness
Her happily ever after.
I could hear her laughing
On the other side of the darkness
And I reciprocate with laughter
Nestling in between my parka .
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC
Hot and absent
With blurs rushing inwards and out
Flying up stairs that curl and bend
And a constant shout of noise
My head spins, my eye sends a glance
Purposefully at many signs
I can't chance too many wrong turns
My brain turns to wine, the smell makes it ache
I follow toothpaste coloured overalls
In a number of steps to counters and beds
Heavy and tense, both fall on me.
I clutch a card that I've read over again
Over again
Again I am lost
Every wing looks the same
I know that time costs the same as fresh air
Window panes here only open enough
To let in a fly
And a breeze not a cough
Rattles my heart when I near you.
You appear small and soft
Not much of you there
In that armchair propped up by pillows
Where we kneel by your side, holding your hand
And that equivalent draft billows in green
Life from out there prods and it lifts
With us talking to you,
Quiet and spent and wistful
The alphabet brings nothing new
We walk out pondering, my arm through yours
It is just us two
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 5:21 PM UTC
1.
Full sta(r)ring
I sit as the window
was a pleading enormous nobody
he declared my head
practically lost.
2.
flustered you’ll doubt that
he glanced
sleep can’t.
3.
Crooked conversation listeners
clenched authority grimy
beside the sight attempt
4.
that chanced amusement
obliged its stiff attempt
by askance explanation
he and the slipped tongue
therefore sitting
on the heels of friday
5.
overhead the engine slipped suddenly when
she whispers explanation
grand
6.
growling hurried difficulty
shouldn’t reason but
the creature bitterly
declared in smaller steps
"you’ll doubt when i"
7.
I blinked and riddle
the shifting moral of executed
fright the cunning
underpromised
dependent muddle
congressional huddle
8.
not the sadistic wet world
glaring or the the the
defended
answers soaped the the the
dyed course
hello doesn’t the the the
let my coming
9.
adding highest denial
we tear the despair
rolling secret sea so far
winter guard softly introduced
my remembered underneath
10.
his daughter
a canary warily dared
to pretend to drink in
bound education of judging
11.
the height dating
and pushy she interrupting
like the party
for wonderful
couple of sharks
12.
elbow listening did dishes
she declared panicky
we will go by asking
uh um
curled hair blank slate
forming saucepan all sobbing
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
I’d hidden away the mirrors
Packed them up and sent them off,
Taken the shine off the saucepan lids,
Sandpapered the coffee ***
Everything that reflected I’d
Sand-blast, like the sliding doors,
Even got rid of the polisher
For shining the wooden floors.
It was very like narcolepsy when
She saw her face on a plate,
She’d go in a trance and sit for hours
In a crazy, dreamlike state,
I’d take away the reflection and
She’d sit and weep for hours,
‘You’ve taken away my beauty,’ she
Would say, and take cold showers.
It seemed like a terrible sickness that
She loved her looks so much,
She’d say, ‘If you won’t let me see myself,
I’ll just make do with touch,’
She’d run her fingers over her face
Explore each crease and mound,
And sigh to her satisfaction as
She felt her lips turn down.
I couldn’t get rid of the garden pool
That flowed on in from the brook,
Babbling over the standing stones
From the woods at Nether Hook,
I’d catch her kneeling beside the pool
And staring into its depths,
Smiling at each reflection that
Would ripple with every breath.
‘Beware of the evil Water Sprite,’
I told her more than once,
‘He takes advantage of lovely girls
For he hates to be outdone.
He’ll lure you into a shady pool
With guile, and his tender lies
And hold you down ‘til you surely drown,
You’ll avoid him, if you’re wise.’
She told me then of a vision that
She’d seen, that of a prince,
He’d smiled at her from the water but
She hadn’t seen him since.
‘That’s not a prince but the Water Sprite
And he’s trying to lure you down,
To put your face to the water, but
I’ve told you once, you’ll drown.’
The water was babbling gently on
A sunny day in Spring,
In shades of the weeping myrtles and
The sound of cuckooing,
Miranda was knelt beside the pool
And I saw her head go down,
When claws reached out of the water
Pulled her in, without a sound.
I raced across and I seized her hair
And I pulled her from the pool,
But claws had raked at her pretty face,
She said, ‘I feel a fool!
I should have listened to you, I know
But I thought that just one kiss…’
But he had turned to a monster and
Had bitten her rose red lips.
I put the mirrors all back in place
And I bought new shiny pans,
Polished the floor, you can see your face
But she hides behind her hands,
She never looks in a mirror now
Though her scars are healed and white,
But goes each day to poison the pool
To **** off the Water Sprite.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Yield infinite possibilities
Ingredients
A pinch of “I don’t give a crap”
A dash of “respect”
A cup of “alone time”
2 sprigs of a “peace of mind”
A heaping tablespoon of “some good lovin’”
2 gallons of “go **** yourself”
Directions:
1. Pour half of “go **** yourself” into a saucepan and mix it with “I don’t give a crap.”
2. Place the sprigs of “a peace of mind” and stir constantly with “some good lovin’” and half of the “alone time.”
3. To finish it off, add “respect” and then place the saucepan over medium heat for 5 to 10 minutes, or until it is very hot but not boiling.
4. Remove it from the heat. Add the remainder of “go **** yourself” and the other half of “alone time” if needed. No need to pour it into mugs. Keep back pocket and use all the time
Nutritional Information:
Amount per serving
Happiness and self worth: infinite
******** absolutely none
Years gained in life: too many to count
*Knowing that you don’t give a **** because you’re happy:* PRICELESS
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
Her parents
row at night
Fay heard them
from her bed
her brothers
young and small
innocent
in their sleep
she held tight
in her hand
her wooden
rosary
her small thumb
rubbed over
the plaster
crucified
two voices
in conflict
high and low
a duet
that threatened
harsh violence
Fay's body
huddled up
beneath wool
coverings
if only
Benedict
could be there
him there now
at the foot
of her bed
her 12 year
old white knight
and she his
12 year old
young princess
of their twin
childlike game
but he's not
he sleeps in
his own bed
in a flat
on the next
balcony
beneath hers
if only
he would come
sword in hand
standing there
at the foot
of her bed
protecting
with his mum's
small saucepan
a helmet
on his head.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
I made a bowl of soup for myself tonight.
Red bean, kale, and quinoa.
I toasted two slices of bread,
buttered them,
let them cool.
I planned on dunking them
in the soup
to sop up leftover broth.
While the canned food heated
in the red saucepan
on the first burner
to the right,
I did simple tasks.
Recycled bottles from days before,
put away the dishes in the drying rack,
fed the cat.
I paced back and forth,
in my purple socks,
from my bedroom
to the kitchen,
listening to an old record
that sounds like nostalgia.
I did simple tasks.
Small, achievable things.
Self care comes
in many forms.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
It was the morning after the night before
Three bullet holes were embedded in the dress.
Strangely there was no blood on the floor
You don’t need to be an expert to guess the rest.
Because the event did not happen, it was all a dream
A dream produced solely inside the pig’s head.
Things were not how they planned to be or seem
The future Mrs Pig is not real and definitely not dead.
Mr Duck slithered into the room with a pipe hanging from his beak
A stuck on pair of mutton chops and a green check cape.
Mr Pig hid behind a newspaper laughing unable to speak
Hatching a cunning plan from which to escape.
“So my dear Watson, er sorry Pig, what were you dreaming last night.”
Mr Duck was puffing awkwardly on his pipe.
I suggest I heard a scream just on when it became light
And you were muttering on about a blood type.
“Murderer” shouted Mr Pig, and then slapped his hand across his lips.
Regretting his choice of word he quickly said “moody aren’t we”
Mr Duck tried to squint at him and stood with his wing on his hips
Squinting was ******* - he could hardly focus let alone see.
He now was confused, slung off the cape which was getting hotter
That was because it burst into flames from ash from the pipe
Which promptly landed on Mr Pig’s sore trotter?
Mr Pig was oblivious to this and thought he smelt tripe.
However the newspaper he was holding went up in smoke
Mr Pig heard the crash of a saucepan and its lid.
Thinking what now has Mr Duck broke
Not realising Mr Duck had fled and hid.
Now can you guess the rest?
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
I think anyone would
sitting in a saucepan
with a shocked look of surprise
on its blue cold face.
Feet dangling over the side
turning a nice shade of pink.
Feeling hot, hot, hot
Feeling hot, hot, hot
Nok likely.
The lobster dashed bravely
out of the pan.
Again with a shocked look
of surprise on its face.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
He said, "Tell her it was your fault,"
As if a four-year-old drawing Spiderman in art class was the worst offense--
Messier than the milk he spilled that morning and louder than he'd scream that night
As his mom looms over him, saucepan in tow.
"Tell her it was your fault," he insisted as his mom got out of the car to collect her son,
Her property, her punching bag, and bring him home to God only knows what kind of house
Full of whips and chains or--perhaps worse than that--sheer normalcy and the emptiness of a wealthy family's home
Since a life lived being pushed around is one that feels bare like a vacant motel room
Where one day he'll sit, thrown out of his house by his wife and kids
Who will be stronger than his mom was, braver than she'll ever be.
He just wanted me to say it was my fault so I did, but it wasn't enough to break the spell
And now I know that nothing ever will be
Because five hours of statements with the police and interviews with child services
Won't effect change in this boy's life
Because if his saying, "Mom hits me" can't,
Then nothing will.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
It was a dark Byron night when
You and i looked at the stars,
Explained to the Indigo child,
From America,
His name was Tyler
That there a
Saucepan beside a
Southern Cross
...
And then we
Went
On a journey of discovery...
Thirteen years later we
Are still here.
With the same dreams,
Right beside the same fears.
Do You Have A vision?
If so, proclaim it to me now.
Dear Husband,
I Miss You.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Sadly Paddy Martin lost his life but I will always remember him.
He was a friend, a dear poet friend and I miss him.
Paddy Martin wherever you are, whichever cloud you are
sitting on this is for you.
He once told me that I touch hearts
but it was Paddy that had a heart of gold.
You always knew where you stood with Paddy
and what was about to unfold.
He took in homeless children, giving them hope
and the love that they needed and the rest.
And not everyone can find that in their heart
when your own back's against the wall and at test.
He had a loving family, adored his wife so very much
She died of a broken heart when Paddy left this Earth.
But to me they both live on, sitting on a cloud somewhere
busy writing on a scrap of paper for all that it was worth.
His poems turned pages themselves, as if by magic
He had a unique gift that is very seldom seen
He could turn the sky blue on a dull miserable day
and make the scorched grass turn once more green.
He had a stroke and I developed saucepan talk
He'd bash the lid once for yes twice for no.
The phone rang once and I heard a single bash
He made me giggle that night but he had to go.
He knew himself that this bash meant goodbye
and the tears even now flow steadily down my face.
Paddy you were and still are champion of the world
I wish you were still around, in Paddy's place.
A tribute to a much loved poet who will be forever sadly missed.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
It is his pride and joy
His one and only pleasure
His favourite toy
His hidden treasure.
It is the Duck’s saucepan cupboard
Where he keeps his stash
Like Old Mother Hubbard
Except it’s a duck’s trash.
Little bit of this and a bit of that
Where his secrets are hid
From anything to next door’s cat
And perhaps the odd saucepan lid.
It is where he hides when he’s in trouble
When he has gone off the rails.
Not being one to burst his bubble
And I am not the one to tell tales!
They knew he was in there
Always with a smile on his fat face
And whilst the Duck is sat on a chair
They sat outside his door just in case.
Ramming the odd sandwich into his beak
Made weeks ago hence difficult to digest
The sandwich positively antique
And would fail a hygiene test
But he does not care he feels okay
He is in his cupboard and that is beyond measure
Because at the end of the day
It is his pride, pleasure and treasure.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
If you annoy a Sicilian woman
She will fling herself at you shrieking,
Her hair and eyes wild with rage; she’ll plunge a dagger
Into your heart three times before you fall
And then she’ll spit on your corpse and curse your memory
If you annoy a French woman
She will fling at you a stiletto heel
Or a saucepan (with sauce veloute’, oui!)
Either one will take you down, mon ami
And then she’ll dial a friend for company
If you annoy a Russian woman
She will make a discreet telephone call
And when in spring the ice of the Neva thaws
Your frozen body will at last pop up
And then she’ll write a poem in your memory
If you annoy an English woman
She will smile sweetly, and poison your tea
And as you collapse, gasping desperately for breath
She will smile again, and ask if anything’s wrong
And then she’ll ring for Jeeves to tidy up
Finally:
A Canadian woman (I’m telling no tales) -
You mess with her, and you’re bait for the whales!
-fin- (so to speak)
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road
Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light
her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket
what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday
she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it
she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go
I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still
but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing
she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out
her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking
she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room
what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge
Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest
does he now
and what
did you say?
Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls
said I'd ask you
Helen replies
did you now
well now you've asked
Helen waits
unsure of the answer
how much is it
to the cinema then?
Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)
don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says
can I go?
her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge
ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money
Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip
get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says
and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
Bad times
And yes also some very good times
Sunday evening was always bath time in our house
BATH TIME!!!
Well yes we had a bath
With a cold tap
But
Hot water came from a wood fired boiler in the corner
Hoping
Will it be my turn to go first tonight
Because with nine kids the rest went in two by two
So
Out with the first one then in went a saucepan full of boiling water
Then in went the rest, two in two out in with the water
But we never complained and rarely fell sick
Cooking
Mum had an old black wood fired range
On rare occasions coal if there was a little extra money
But oh what mum could do on/in that range
Come home from school and the air would be redolent with the aroma of home made bread
On the hob a great pan of bubbling rabbit stew made with veg from the garden and rabbits the older kids snared
Yes, good plain wholesome food
Television
Oh boy televion
A screen about 12 by 10 in a dark brown Bakelite case
Not new of course, we couldn't afford that
The back was permanently off so that every time it went wrong
Dad could jump up, reach inside and wiggle the valves
I'll never know to this day how he never electrocuted himself
I will never forget our toilet to my dying day
Out of the back door and turn left then in
A wooden seat under which was a large cast iron pail
Usually it was torn squares of newspaper but on special occasions
REAL toilet paper
Three times a week that pail would be taken to the veg garden and the contents buried
The following year we would have fantastic veg
Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Outside the door
of the butler Dudman
Polly sticks up
two fingers at him
and mouths a string
of four-letter words
she strides off
towards the kitchen
where Mrs Gripe
(the cook)
is waiting for her
Polly's thoughts
are on George(master)
and what Dudman said
about her not
having *** with him
when he comes home
from the place
he is resting
with shell-shock
from the War
or you will be fired
she hears Dudman's voice
in her ears
as she climbs down
the stairs and along
the passage way
she passes Susie
near the kitchen
entering the scullery
where have you been?
Susie says eyeing her
never you mind
Polly says
and enters the kitchen
where Gripe stands
hands on her hips
and gazing at her
where you been?
Been waiting for you
Gripe says coldly
Polly bites her tongue
and goes to the sink
and begins
to peel the potatoes
cat got your tongue?
I said where have you been?
Gripe says
Mr Dudman wanted
to see me about something
but I am here now
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
what about?
Gripe says
ask him
Polly says
peeling the potatoes
with viciousness
I am asking you
Gripe says
and I expect respect
not rudeness girl
Polly gouges out
a potatoes eye
and turns towards Gripe
about something I do
and mustn't do in future
and I am sorry
for being rude
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
and Polly stares back
about you
and Master George?
Gripe says
Polly reddens
and looks away
and nods
be discreet and careful
if Master George
wants you
Gripe says quietly
and turns away
and puts a big saucepan
on the stove
silence comes
and Polly peels on
and wonders what
George is doing now
and maybe
she thinks
Gripe isn't always
the big cow.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
They Bake A Cake
They asked if they could dabble in a bit of cooking.
She gulped said her prayers and counted to ten
They asked if they could steal the eggs while the hen wasn’t looking
So without delay and morals they whipped them away from the hen.
They were in a flap so that most of his stuff landed on the floor.
They had found the good butter and thick double cream.
Which apparently smeared everywhere including the door
While she was relaxing and in a huge daydream.
She was in a good mood and was listening to Elgin
Barely keeping awake and had nodded off again.
They were searching the saucepan cupboard looking for a cake tin
When the door sprang open and in marched the old hen.
She shouted, they froze and she began to shake
They were struggling to find the right words to say.
They offered her some nice tea and a fairy cake
And they were devising a plan to get away.
They turned tables and said she wanted to bake
Thought that she could have bought the eggs instead
She said that there had been a bit of a mistake
But they went bright red and held their heads.
The hen ordered that her precious eggs be put back
And was disappointed they had taken them in the first place
They were discussing who should put them back
And the guilt began to show on each and every face
She said they were flippant and not thought it through
They were all gripping to death their handkerchieves
Now it seems they all thought the hen had gone cuckoo
But one stepped forward and said he was the thief.
Later on they both said they would go and see Mrs Hen
On arrival he dropped onto his knees.
The rest were wondering what their friend was up to again
and heard him begging forgiveness for stealing please!
“Well, you are a turncoat, what’s come over you”
They although that his situation is now rather bleak
and all gave advice what he could do
which was the topic of conversation for the rest of the week!
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC