A Satan she that named coinage be.
What mess, what poison shall we smell and see?
Durst we to kitchen venture: food to seek?
Dost we know her presence from the foul reek?
Sight of filled sink confirms suspicion,
Descends us to anxious dereliction.
Aroma singes eyebrows with onion’s smell,
In our cooking’s realm to turn it to Hell.

Published by Solilska

3 thoughts on “#174 – Flatmate”

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