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A blow from a frying-pan, if it does not hurt, smuts.
Said the frying pay to the kettle, Stand off, black bottom.
The frying-pan said to the kettle, ""Avaunt, black brows!""
The frying-pan says to the kettle, ""Avaunt, black brows!""
The Brunt Of The Heat
A frying cake blamed a frying pan
And the frying pan, the frying cake
For the brunt of heat they bore from the stove
Like a woman and his son’s wife do.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Honestly Speaking My Dear
you have a sharp knife with you
so i will keep a little distance
poor innocent onions, lousy green tomatoes,
foul garlic chopped into microscopic
pieces, and a frying pan overheated like a bull
fuming with smoke from the oil
what is that temperature honey?
oh, you are angry again to the world
of work, you are bored to the law
of routine, you are at it again in your
atlantic ocean of sighs and mysterious
turbulent ways, surge and upsurge.
I do not ask for reasons.
I let you boil up like water inside
that kettle that sings the songs
of madness, a warning that all
must shut up or be stabbed with
your unexplainable silence.
nothing sunny side up, everything
hard boiled with the black soot of
sulfur settling at the bottom of the egg.
honestly speaking, i do not mind at all.
it is at the time when you are so angry
that you become so silent,
and i like it that way. I can think some more.
Deeper and probing. Perhaps, i shall
soon find the answer in the hot oil overheated
inside that frying pan.
No one wants to be fried alive,
you know that well enough.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In the Frying Pan!
IN the frying pan!
Frying;
Cooking with the art of love,
In style;
And like y
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Pot And Kettle
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
For every hour they told their hearts, 'Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
poem by Robert Graves
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There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.
quote by by Edward Lear
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Kettle
There’s many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendour
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask – a kitchen
Where the kettles always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
Or seems so in my thought,
And that’s a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle’s always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie’s household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You’ll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen –
The very homiest spot –
The kettle’s always singing,
The water’s always hot.
And if you have a headache,
Whate’er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don’t know how she does it –
Some magic she has caught –
For the kitchen’s cool in summer,
Yet the kettle’s always hot.
Oh, there’s naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Kettle boils like my anger
As the kettle boils.
So does my anger.
My anger is reder than the heat.
Its not just the heat of the moment.
The kettle is getting hot.
My anger nor depression will cease.
Its like some kind of disease.
As the kettle boils I melt.
In the heat of the depression.
And the mist of the anger
poem by Amy Kerswell
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Out Of The Frying Pan
out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
It's only two o'clock and the temperture's beginning to soar
And all around the city you see the walking wounded and the living dead
It's never been this hot and i've never been so bored
And breathing is just no fun anymore
And then i saw you like a summer dream
And you're the answer to every prayer that i ever said
I saw you like a summer dream
And you're the answer to every prayer that i ever said
You can feel the pulse of the pavement racing like a runaway horse
The subways are steaming and the skin of the street is gleaming with sweat
I've seen you sitting on the steps outside
And you were looking so restless and reckless and lost
I think it's time for you to come inside
I'll be waiting here with something that you'll never forget
I think it's time for you to come inside
I'll be waiting here with something that you'll never forget
Come on! come on!
And there'll be no turning back
You were only killing time and it'll kill you right back
Come on! come on!
It's time to burn up the fuse
You've got nothing to do and even less to lose
You've got nothing to do and even less to lose
So wander down the ancient hallway
Taking the stairs only one at a time
Follow the sound of my heartbeat now
I'm in the room at the top, you're at the end of the line
Open the door and lay down on the bed
The sun is just a ball of desire
And i wanna take you out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
And i wanna take you out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire!
It's only two o'clock and the tempertures beginning to soar
And all around the city you see the walking wounded and the living dead
It's never been this hot and i've never been so bored
And breathing is just no fun anymore
And then i saw you like a summer dream
And you're the answer to every prayer that i ever said
I saw you like a summer dream
And you're the answer to every prayer that i ever said
Come on! come on!
And there'll be no turning back
You were only killing time and it'll kill you right back
Come on! come on!
It's time to burn up the fuse
You've got nothing to do and even less to lose
You've got nothing to do and even less to lose
So wander down the ancient hallway
Taking the stairs only one at a time
Follow the sound of my heartbeat now
I'm in the room at the top, you're at the end of the line
Open the door and lay down on the bed
The sun is just a ball of desire
And i wanna take you out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
And i wanna take you out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
Out of the frying pan (and into the fire)
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire! fire! fire!
And into the fire!
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Piney Wood
I have a tiny piney wood;
my trees are only fifty,
Yet give me shade and solitude
For they are thick and thrifty.
And every day to me they fling
With largess undenying,
Fat cones to make my kettle sing
And keep my pan a-frying.
Go buy yourself a piney wood
If you have gold for spending,
Where you can dream in mellow mood
With peace and joy unending;
Where you can cheerfully retreat
Beyond all churchly chiding,
And make yourself a temple sweet
Of rapturous abiding.
Oh silence has a secret voice
That claims the soul for portal,
And those who hear it may rejoice
Since they are more than mortal.
So sitting in my piney wood
When soft the owl is winging,
As still as Druid stone I brood . . .
For hark! the stars are singing.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heat It In The Kettle
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Mix and blend before you can,
Add the tomatoes.
Heat it in the kettle then...
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Add the tomatoes.
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then...
Feed me love!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fishing Song: To J.A. Froude and Tom Hughes
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory-
They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I'll tell you where we think of going,
To swate and far o'er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We'll flog and troll in strid and hole,
And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and-Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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A Song About Myself
I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.
II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry-
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm-
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good-
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers-
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle-
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!
IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mimics in a kitchenette
A spoon in the rack
Beside sugar and salt jars.
Spoon mutters;
'I love both of you and you're like twins
But it complicates me without tasting you
How do I jump to the old Master's
Cup of Tea?
Kettle whistles and the Master still asleep.'
Parrot in the cage whispers;
'On holidays Master won't wake up early.'
Then who poured water into the kettle? '
'Don't you know Master brought a sweet *bride last night.'
[*A job agency has supplied a house-maid from a rural village.]
It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen.
-Brigitte Bardot
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Frying Pan's Theology
Shock-headed blackfellow,
Boy (on a pony).
Snowflakes are falling
Gentle and slow,
Youngster says, "Frying Pan
What makes it snow?"
Frying Pan, confident,
Makes the reply --
"Shake 'im big flour bag
Up in the sky!"
"What! when there's miles of it?
Surely that's brag.
Who is there strong enough
Shake such a bag?"
"What parson tellin' you,
Ole Mister Dodd,
Tell you in Sunday-School?
Big pfeller God!
"Him drive 'im bullock dray,
Then thunder go;
Him shake 'im flour bag --
Tumble down snow!"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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