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O’er five star food and friv’lous habit is hung,
No feebler excuse doth one need to arouse

In the self-wil1ed spouse, lasting grouse! (10)
Vile ingratitude, Vanity, heart of stone,
Is thy name husband, or ‘nother name for groan:
To the sights and smells of kitchen strange:
The hissing Prestige, on the cooking range
Is unheard melody, but for the ears of Keats;

No shriller whistle was e’er blown at the heats.
What bubbling hope doth coffee’s vapours waft?
Which but to smell is to wield a secret craft,
Where smell is vision, and vision smell!

Thin throuoh the rising curls of aroma’s veil (20)

Lift I my head at the reluctant morn;
No more betwixt me and the bed is loyalty torn:
A hum in the breath and a tune on the lip,
Ne’er was my intellect at the Sense’s tip

So beguiled by the evanascent charm:
Only an arm away from uproarious harm;
Not rolling thunder on the glass shatt’r’d more’
Not suburban EMU on the rails roll’d o’er and o’er

As when my cup of coffee, saucer, spoon et al
From my shaking hand had a splashing fall! (30)
Ill fares the day, to hungry ills a prey:
Give me my day’s bread, Thee my Lord.I pray !
I sit at the table, a picture of poise
Resolv’d to bare my lips but to eat sans noise:

“Tut, tut what if, the soup is short of a pinch,
Think of the struggle, my son, on Dhandi’s beach.
Even Spencer’s sauce hath lost its savour,
Dear mother’s hand hath greater flavour!”.

“An ounce of labour is worth a ton of satire”
Lest one silly remark stoke simm’ring ire! (40)
No gossip or joke on our neighbours will mend,
Nor ready wit, nor idle banter will the strife end.
Oh, ‘tis vain to hope she’d return to her

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