R. K. Hart
The Cast Iron Kettle
My old dad had many stories he loved to tell.
As a child these stories held me in their spell.
Mostly they contained a corrugated shearing shed,
Or a boxing contest with shots to the head.
My favorite story I share with you
Now I cannot say it will all be true.
But where facts fail I will not cry.
I'll simply exaggerate or straight out lie.
One very dark and stormy night when lighting flashed,
My dad the shearers cook heard angry voices next door so in he dashed.
In the room were husband and wife.
They were going toe to toe till she was in strife.
Valiantly Dad told them the error of their way
Something he was going to regret that day.
He pulled the man away from the woman with a mighty yank.
And laid a hook on him that sent him temporarily blank.
He then turned around expecting a smile of thanks from across the room,
When something large flew passed his eyes with a zoom.
This blackened figure hit the rusting tin wall with a crash.
And the hiss of hot water around Dad did splash.
There at his feet a cast iron kettle lay,
His head sprung up with a look of dismay.
She had snatched the kettle from it's resting place on the stove,
And toward my dad's head she drove.
Then she looked at my old Dad with a smile of satisfaction
Content she had dealt with the intruder with this action.
Dad just stood there in cooks apron and shorts with a face of red.
She continued her smile and showed but three blacken teeth in her head.
Today ol Dad has passed away.
But I'll tell you one thing he always used to say.
When it comes to siding with husband or wife.
Side with neither, and stay out of others families strife.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
[ RKH Monday, March 17,2003 ]
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