I Never Made the Tea

I’ve always had the kettle and a stack of bags to brew,
And I can boil water; it’s an easy thing to do.
I know the proper etiquette of when to sip or dunk,
And how to clean the tea cup when the tea has all been drunk.
Everything I’ve needed was just sitting there for me.
The leaves were always waiting, but I never made the tea.

I always had the meat and cheese, and butter to be spread.
I’ve always kept on hand supplies of sliced and packaged bread.
Inside my kitchen drawer I always keep a sharpened knife;
It is perhaps the simplest of all foods in this life.
But all of those supplies remain unused upon the shelf,
‘Cause after all, I never made the sandwiches myself.

Behind the bar, I have a line of shelves up on the wall,
And there is my collection of the bottles, short and tall.
There’s rum and scotch and whiskey, there’s tequila, beer, and wine;
It’d be hard to find selections that are more complete than mine.
But though the bottles may be there, despite what someone thinks,
I had the opportunities, but never made the drinks.

But even when the metaphors have faded all away,
When words have failed at last and there’s so little left to say,
When questions echo through my head of what I didn’t do,
And all that I have left is just a memory of you,
The thing I truly never made, my only lasting crime:
I had the minutes, hours, but I never made the time.

The Royal Klutz Brigade

Sergeant Porter shot his mortar,
Down across the field,
Said Johns, “A trifle;” shot his rifle,
And hoped the foe would yield.
Captain Gannon lit the cannon,
Which caused a mighty boom,
And Private Pete made his retreat,
Or so we all assume.

Harry Blighter took his lighter,
Lit the red stick’s fuse,
Then Major Moppet saw him drop it,
And hoped it was a ruse.
Old Nigel Hyatt, still a private,
Affixed his bayonet,
While coward Wade, he went for “aid,”
And hasn’t come back yet.

A chap called Bristol shot his pistol,
Emptied out the clip,
While Ensign Clay was far away
And safe upon his ship.
Chaplain Rhys upraised his eyes,
And prayed they’d somehow win,
When Corporal Greer, the grenadier,
Had lost his lucky pin.

Then pilot Mort, the air support,
He strafed each trench and zone,
But couldn’t see, unfortun’tely,
And kind of strafed his own,
And once the gust had cleared the dust,
Each soldier knew the score,
No foe’d been there to fight or scare;
They’d missed the whole dang war.

Goblin Snowmen

‘Twas the first day of wartime
And the snowmen stood in lines,
As the goblins moved behind them,
Through the entrance to the mines.
“Oh, you cold, immobile snowmen,
Tell me what you’re standing for.”
Said the Snowmen, “We are sentries,
On the front line of this war.
Yes, we’re soldiers in this war, that’s what we were crafted for,
We’re delighted to be fighting on the front lines of this war.”

Came a bellow from the foe, then,
“Summers come when winters go,
And our mighty armies will not
Be deterred by men of snow,
And behind you work the goblins,
In their mines of gold and ore,
And your forms of frozen water
Will protect their kind no more.
You’ll protect their kind no more, no matter what you’re crafted for,
And you’ll die like any other foolish soldier in this war.”

But the Snowmen stood undaunted
As they sounded their alert,
And they said, “I think you’ll find now,
That a snowman’s hard to hurt.”
And then they locked their tree-branch arms,
Prepared for blood and gore –
And alas, I cannot tell you
If those Snowmen won their war.
Did the Snowmen win their war? I was with the other corps,
And they chilled me, yes, they killed me, on the first day of their war.