Of course I take mine with sugar
But the children and ants got in the bowl.
So perhaps a squeeze of lemon
If I do not have to share with Karl or Leo or Sigmund.
Rather tired of the petit fours,
Those little sticky-sick boxes used to put everyone into.
I've lost my shoe and my butter and my sympathy
And I much rather sit and watch the dollhouse burn.
Ah, I am grateful that I do not have to settle among the limited
For I am the stuff of dreams, of tarts, of spoons.
Let me pour out from the kettle
So I can scald you with the steam.
It entertains me so the chaos of a striking clock.
Oh, you have left me as it is just as well.
Useless as the moldy bread.
The drink does taste bitter.
I wonder why that is?