The Gazogene’s Exploded
The gazogene’s exploded and a spare we haven’t got;
the pans aren’t in the pantry and the pots have gone to pot;
we’re owed a Grecian urn, but it’s likely that we’ll not
receive it anytime soon.
The gazogene’s exploded and we haven’t got a spare;
the decanter and the canteen can’t, the frigidaire doesn’t dare;
the urns just aren’t earning, someone fed my vase to a mare,
your ewer, too, to a ewe.
The gazogene’s exploded and let out the bubbly gasses;
the coffee cups have shattered into hemi-demi-tasses;
I’m weaker without my beaker and I’m blind without my glasses;
I even miss the spittoon.
The gazogene’s exploded and the lighter is unlighted;
the loving cup’s uncoupled, as its love was unrequited;
the jar is jarred, the fuddling-cup fuddled, zarf and finjan disunited,
and the tunc is tewly, too.
The gazogene’s exploded and I see no reason why;
the shot glass shot, the tankard tanked, the highball flew too high;
the poor old-fashioned’s obsolete, and others, by and by,
will be miffed at being stiffed.
The gazogene’s exploded and that really isn’t fine;
the Erlenmeyer flask I’ve got’s a pretty sorry stein;
this bottle here’s one-sided: it was made by Felix Klein,
and is non-orientable as all hell.
The gazogene’s exploded and the blender’s broke a rotor;
the mixer is unsocial since it blew its second motor;
the trophy cup’s not winsome since it perceived the odor
of which the snifter sniffed a whiff.
The gazogene’s exploded, and its failed its only task; O!,
the condiments have left their neat containers: what a fiasco!;
there’s hot sauce on the kitchen floor, a puddle of Tabasco;
this day isn’t going so well.
The gazogene’s exploded all over the Persian rug;
the pitcher isn’t pretty, no, it’s just another jug;
the drinking horn’s not horny since it saw the ugly mug,
the krater’s in a crater from impact.
The rummer is just rummy, and the rhyton is all right;
the chalice has no malice, it just hasn’t slept all night;
the Venice glass knows when i’ss past, but now it’s shining bright,
and the gazogene’s intact!
Daniel Galef writes things sometimes, but also sometimes does other stuff that isn’t necessarily writing. He currently resides 20 fathoms below the earth’s crust underneath Montreal, where he has been tasked by the ghost of Stephen Leacock with observing the habits of McGill professors by going under deep cover as a college student. He also has a Twitter thing now (@DanielGalef) and sometimes uses it, so you should all go and have a glance at that.