When she sings in the kitchen,
the house is aglow,
All brushes queue up
to be in the front row.
The cups and saucers are listening in pairs,
The washing machine
will be her Jordan-esque.
When he's standing in the shower,
the hose is in his hand,
The rose-combed microphone rumbling pipes his band,
His Springsteen in St. Louis,
screaming loud and purring soft,
Is more like Jerry Lewis when the potion's wearing off.
But out in the kitchen,
the sound is divine,
The freezer and fridge
are both humming
in time,
She's melting the butter,
defrosting the food,
The mistress is in
an embrace-a-bone mood.
The telephone is ringing,
it just hates to be ignored,
The fax machine is frantic,
but the typewriter is bored,
The internet is calling,
and it's filling up the screen,
The office is a nightmare,
and the boss has fled the screams.
But out in the kitchen,
the song has a lilt,
The saucepan
is saucy,
it grins with no guilt,
The
chilli's spicy,
too hot for the pot,
The mistress
is singing
in Spanish-a-lot.
Cocooned within his bedroom is a sixteen-year-old stiff,
He's practicing for stardom with a Jimi Hendrix riff,
We've heard it fifty times tonight,
we'll hear it fifty more,
We'll get it right by Christmas,
or we'll shove him out the door.
But out in the kitchen,
the tune
breaks your heart,
The pastry is cracking,
it's falling apart,
The onions are crying,
they're feeling the pain,
The mistress is singing
a sad song again,
When she sings in the kitchen,
the house is aglow.
The wheels queue up
to be in the front row.