By Russ Farrell
This old range in the kitchen
We fed it alder wood.
The darn thing made more ashes
Than sixteen smokers should.
The pan would fill I two days’ time,
The draft plugs up in four,
And Saturday when I come home
The stove wouldn’t draw no more.
I told her clean it twice a week,
A three-minute chore or less,
Then Saturdays we’d not ‘oblige
To clean the Goddamn mess.
Yet never came it week-end morn
I’d find the ash pan clean,
Though dire the threats I poured upon
That all-too-often scene.
Then came the day my patience gave,
My temper broke from stress:
I dumped it in the living room,
Told her t clean the mess.
Then left for town at double-quick,
Yes, I left right away,
And didn’t get back tell late at night
‘Cause I knew what she would say.
Well, everything was peace and quiet
And that was how it stayed.
So, I’d better mention ‘bout the kids
And how it was they played.
‘Course this was some weeks later,
Our kids played Mom and Dad:
Jeri’d rock her dolly
And spank her when she’s bad.
Jamie was the daddy,
A four-year-old he-man:
He built the houses, ran the trucks,
As every daddy can.
He looked around for things to do,
His lady to impress…
He took the ash pan, dumped it,
Says, “Now clean your Goddamn mess.”
His ma, she strapped and tanned him.
Why? I don’t know this day…
They were just two healthy youngsters
In a normal bit of play.