I can feel kitchen heat, so I mount a smile.
That oven door opens to reveal food piles.
Often I’ve said to her: “That’s where you belong—
your treats upend a frown on a face that’s long.

She brings me lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, tasty lunch;
my teeth go crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, grazing crunch.

She’s got a fine sense of cuisine. . .deserves a kitchen crown,
and I do all I can to spread her renown.
Baking stewpot bubbles! Laced with a bay leaf.
Smell that fresh-killed hart bake; I hope the wait is brief!

Yes, she feeds me in the daytime,
and she feeds me late at night.
I love to watch her make that ground round stir:
swift stir, much stirred, big stir—does it right.

When she is returning to kitchen with tray,
there’ll be a repeat luncheon—might be a soufflé.
Yes, it makes me biteous, so I feed my piehole,
makes me a glad fellow. Now here’s sautéed sole!

She brings me lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, tasty lunch,
then brings me brunch, brunch, brunch, brunch, tasty brunch.