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
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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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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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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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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
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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
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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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Polly puts the kettle on
Polly puts the kettle on
Snakes rattle on insane
Round the kettle rattle on
All she puts is in vain
Polly bottles water deep
The taps mocks her ‘bravo’
But water steam stubborn peeps
The dishes clatter NO
‘The steam’s too high
Up on a ceiling
It winds too nigh
To a broken feeling’
‘What’ asks Polly
‘Hiss’ say snakes
‘What’s at stake
When kettles break? ’
‘What? ! ’ screams Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes curl
‘Ha ha ha ha ha ah
You bottle a whirl
My fair lady! ’
‘Why? ’ shouts Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes hide
Dragging down the water deep
‘Who? ’ asks Polly
The steam still glides
A broken feeling leaps
With heart in utter fear
‘Don’t ask for your daddy
He’s not ever here
My fair lady! ’
‘How? ’ stammers Polly
‘Has it happened?
Oh what a mistake to make!
To ever put the kettle on
When I’m not ready for the tea
My fingers are burnt
They swell in pain
I’ll just have to learn
Not to do that again! ’
See also Pollyteaparty by the same author
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Housewife's Choice - Kettle To Popocatépetl
Day day follows, Time despoiling,
tea-breaks bravely boredom foiling.
Bubbles boiling in the kettle
test their mettle ‘gainst the metal.
Atoms, constantly turmoiling,
pressure steam which soars uncoiling
till mist vapour cools to settle.
Tea leaves seethe as soft stream rises
soothing stress, green taste surprises,
tension melts though sugar, milk
added betray all Chinese silk,
treason seems to swallow. Wise is
she whose grace competes with Isis.
Feeling fair, in finer fettle
harrassed housewife from harsh toiling
desists, dame dainty, nothing soiling,
blushing Nature often nettles,
lips, fingertips, paints pink as petal.
She'd seize Sherlock, Conan Doyling,
J. K. Rowling, or, gargoyling,
romance - Popocatépetl -
or turn to T.V., mind resettles.
Thus each livelong day, self-oiling,
turns on kitchen kettle boiling.
first version Kettle to Popocatépetl 3rd August 2006
(3 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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One Of These Things First
I could have been a sailor, could have been a cook
A real live lover, could have been a book.
I could have been a signpost, could have been a clock
As simple as a kettle, steady as a rock.
I could be
Here and now
I would be, I should be
But how?
I could have been
One of these things first
I could have been
One of these things first.
I could have been your pillar, could have been your door
I could have stayed beside you, could have stayed for more.
Could have been your statue, could have been your friend,
A whole long lifetime could have been the end.
I could be yours so true
I would be, I should be through and through
I could have been
One of these things first
I could have been
One of these things first.
I could have been a whistle, could have been a flute
A real live giver, could have been a boot.
I could have been a signpost, could have been a clock
As simple as a kettle, steady as a rock.
I could be even here
I would be, I should be so near
I could have been
One of these things first
I could have been
One of these things first.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walk Casually Into The Sun
As I walk along my chosen path I know there is work to be done.
As I walk casually into the sun
As I stare at the marquis that bares my name I wonder how long will my show run
As I walk casually into the sun
As I ponder each step and charted course to my next action I ponder, have I yet begun?
As I walk casually into the sun
As the road gets rocky does this mean a rocky road or just loose pebbles undone
As I walk casually into the sun
As I look down at my feet and then at the sky, I think where am I what have I become
As I walk casually into the sun
As a boy I was a wimpy kid knowing it did not feel right, myself, I would not shun
As I walk casually into the sun
As greatness goes, it is not always great, . Greatness always is, I am the one
As I walk casually into the sun
As a man the plan was always this, to be great you must do what you love
As I walk casually into the sun
As I am in the now I know this, be great for those you love only then will you rise above.
As I walk casually into the sun
poem by Vincent Tinto
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the Boholano
You have your camote
I have my kettle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cinder Alley
Lovely lovely carol sue
I see the heel of the father
Crush the head of the serpent for you
An that beast who found
His way up to your room
You know the one the one
Whos colors are never true
Yeah you do
Yet all the while neath
His banner you did stand
neath the shadow of his wing
Do you remember
Sorrow stands near an close at hand
Sorrow stands an in sorrows hand
The burning ember
Hell come a cinder
Fire call the kettle black
The dark can only hinder it
It will not hold you back
Nor tear you asunder
And the good shepherd
Lo he left all the others
An went to look for you
Yes an he did find thee
An with bruised hands
He did unbind thee
Brought you out
Into the light of day
Hell come a cinder
Fire call the kettle black
The dark can only hinder it
It will not hold you back
Nor tear you asunder
O come and stand with me mother
As we wait for the masters voice
An head that way together
Hell come a cinder
Fire call the kettle black
The dark can only hinder it
It will not hold you back
Nor tear you asunder
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why don't you talk, and go straight, and let all be well?
quote by Black Kettle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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.
That which you put into your soup kettle, comes latter onto your spoon.