The New Kettle
How many worthy, shiny pans
Have fallen in my mother's hands
Left boiling, roiling, burning black
On the stove when she turned her back?
Will this sturdy little pot
Endure where all the rest have not?
So well designed, it surely oughter
Survive the perilous boiling water.
Whistle loudly, prove your mettle.
You're a trouper, little kettle.
Let not your end be one of shame,
Twisted, blackened by the flame.
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