Poetry Archives

When Ida puts her armor on
  And draws her trusty blade
The turnips in the bin turn pale,
  The apples are afraid.
The quiet kitchen city wakes
  And consternation feels,
And quick the tocsin pealeth forth
  In long potato peels.

When Ida puts her armor on
  The pots and pans succumb,
A wooden spoon her drum-stick is,
  A mixing pan her drum;
She charges on the kitchen folk
  With silver, tin and steel
She beat the eggs, she whips the cream,
  The victory is a meal.

When Ida puts her apron on
  Her breast-plate is of blue.
(Checked gingham ruffled top and sides)
  Her gauntlets gingham, too;
And thus protected from assault
  Of batter, stain and flour
She wars with vegetable foes
  And conquers in an hour.

When Ida puts her armor on
  She is so fair to see
Her battle with the kitchen folk
  Is reproduced in me;
So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie,
  So good her kitchen art
I hardly know which loves her best
  My palate or my heart.