Utility and improvising meet
By cooking in the kitchen, tapping feet.
No other room will dancing yield spiced chicken
Than moving measures, dancing in the kitchen.
There if you blow some steam, or lose your top,
Dissolve the stress by tango with a mop.
Outside you'd pirouette or waltz on porch,
But rain obliges or the sun beams scorch!
The living-room has glass to overturn:
This high-priced painting! Watch that! Granddad's urn...
The dinning-room fills up, too fat for dance:
Men stuff their faces—give their mouths a chance;
Devouring food ill suits the dancer's grace,
Thus if you dance, the kitchen is the place!

I know now where your sprite is from,
Where you turn opposite hum-drum:
For here mid dance, you drum and hum.
You’re stony in that severe tomb—
Our never lived-in living-room.
In study-hall you sloth and slum.
In kitchens though you move your bum,
Th' effect on feet must beat one's rum!

Don't dance! Don't even step one foot in
that perfumed kitchen of my Wiccan
x-wife; better to be a chicken
fried well outside than in her kitchen,
roasted for non-participation
than Bacchus's fickle rotation.
Prelude to pandemonium,
she'll flick you suitor like a crumb.
Don't dance! For if you tap one toe
in, like Prometheus you'll know
Waltzing past warnings marries woe.

Don't Dance in his Kitchen

His kitchen yields one rule of thumb:
stay out, by God! Nor dance, that's dumb.
A chef there lies whose dance reverses,
repays your pains with top-shelf curses;
you try again, but lips curl worse;
with him one step off-beat spills wars.
You lost the hymn beat of the Chicken
Souffle past measure, putting fish in;
Like Beelzebub fudged out from Heaven,
You spoiled the high strung gastro-vision
of Gordon Ramsay. O what thunder!
assail a dopey kid to blunder.
Out, out of sync, against the flow,
most un-feng shui each way you go;
red Ramsey steams where sharp knives hang; o
stay out! It takes two chefs to tango.



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