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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?




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