The clock said was full of old nick.
The salt said the cream should be whipped,
The cinnamon laughed—in a rage
The cream said the salt was too fresh,
And its friend wasn’t thought to be sage.
You’d not think a thing that’s so holey
As the sieve would have mixed in the fuss,
But it did, for it said that the butter
Was a slippery sort of a cuss;
No one knows how the row would have ended,