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In my back kitchen all is quite still,
I have cooked my food and ate my fill.
Then the dishes in the sink had their say,
He always eats here but he does not pay.
The empty bottle of fresh brewed beer,
Said, 'He drained me dry without a tear.'
Then of course the mess he makes,
To cook a meal the time he takes.
Could he not eat in the restaurant next door?
They need the money because the Boss is poor.
The only thing that had nothing to say,
Was the frying pan it was not its day.
The knives and forks were filled with rage,
He is a messy eater he should act his age.
Picking out bits here and there indeed,
No wonder he takes so long to have his feed.
Have you ever listened to your kitchen tools?
Mine complain I am the king of fools.
They say I should go out to eat,
Order fresh vegetables with plenty of meat.
Not to come home and start to cook,
I should be relaxing with a good book.
They have no respect for me you know,
Just because I am old and getting slow.
I wash the pots and pans clean each day,
Then I carefully put them all away.
I think I will throw them away onto the rubbish heap,
Except for the sugar bowl that I will keep.
Bernard Shaw
Read poems about / on: respect, money, food, home
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