KITCHEN BATTLE

[Resembling a drawing by Hogarth ... ]

There is pastry on the doormat, there is jam right up the wall,
There is soup spilled on the recipe, which can't be read at all.
The gravy has gone lumpy, the souffle's lying down,
The sink is crammed with dishes, and there's prune juice on my gown.

I had a salmon fillet. It has gone. So has the cat.
I've trodden in the omelet pan. It's egg-shaped now, not flat.
The mayonnaise has curdled, but the dog has got a grin.
The paper that he's playing with - I think the chops were in.

There's a rissole in the oven, which set out as a roast.
I forgot to turn the heat down. I shall serve it up on toast.
The spinach will not puree. It can't soak through the grit.
I made a peach Pavlova, but my son John sat in it.

Complimented on my cooking, I shall murmur: "Not at all!"
While I lock the door that's leading from the kitchen to the hall.
When it's my turn next as hostess, I shall give a gladsome shout,
Tell my friends just where to meet me,

'cos next time - we're eating OUT.
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