Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once. It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.
Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.
Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.
On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve very well known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, Tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.