I get such a good feeling when the fire goes out
because there's no more smoke going up my spout.
Its no wonder I am an sick and tired of my job
because all day long I am boiling on this hob.
On special days I get polished with blacking
but that's only to stop my body from cracking.
When the old man comes home and its time
for tea, that is when I start to feel free.
I am free from water that has been bubbling in
my guts giving me much pain and driving me nuts.
The freedom never lasts for more than an hour
because on goes the tap and another shower.
Filled to the brim then back to the hob just doing
the same old job, boilng over again and again why
cant they see it is causing me pain.
They have gone to bed and the fire is out, then down
comes the soot and chokes my spout.
Soot and water what a combination, but when morning
comes they won't have any inclination; because I am
boiled again just as the day before to make tea for the
master who drinks cups of it by the score.
I know I have a job for life and that could be a good thing
perhaps that's the reason why most kettle's sing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem