The Count VII site


I’m a little teapot short and stout

Here’s my handle, here’s my spout

Am made of fine china not

But of black iron wrought

Am banged around

And I scream my metallic sound

Just because I look tough

You all handle me rough

But my interior is cracked and chipped

Out fall my scales when I’m tipped

In water hot I am dipped

Upside down I am dripped

I feel woozy I feel dizzy

My life isn’t easy

I envy the Porcelain crockery

I turn green with envy at the silver cutlery

Their lot in life is easy; handled with care

Compared to me they best fare

Taken out only once in a blue moon

For special occasions

Or a grand celebration

But for me rest ends too soon

Like the American oil boom.

Day in day out I move about

Should I misbehave to my head gets a clout

I try to do my best, but nothing’s good enough

I can’t shine like silver that’s received a buff

But I know my inside is a scintillating coruscating jewel

That will never see the day of light

For if am right

I will soon fall off this thin ledge that I am standing on

And smash to smithereens like I weigh a tonne

For I do weigh too much

These hot scalding emotions in me

Slowly wear my inside though you can’t see

I’ll then achieve my dream of cracking and breaking like Fine China

In the middle of a glass diner,

Splash all the patrons with my hot innards

And get a taste of my feelings, my troubles, my thoughts.


Comments on: "EMPTYING THE TEAPOT 2" (1)

  1. Your work is exemplary.

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