CREDIT: Written, performed by me

This recording is from a live show I did in Boston. Afterwards a middle aged woman came over to me, put her hand on my chest and said “are you singing about me and my husband?” and that may be the nicest compliment a sad song could ever receive.

LYRICS:

In the kitchen by the cupboard, down where you don’t clean

A hunk of metal, rusting kettle, sits there blowing off steam

It watches both your faces as the fight begins to boil

It whines a little louder cause it knows the routine

CHORUS

Honey drop, sugar lump, don’t look at me like that

Why do you make everything my fault

Let’s play the blame game where you don’t know (but you do know)

When you say that nothing feels right anymore

And you don’t know (but you do know)

Maybe it’s best if neither of us knows

In the kitchen, by the cupboard, we’re smoking the last “I’m quitting”cigarette

Cold coffee, melting butter, breakfast tastes like dirt when you’re alone

The middle ground’s a coffee shop, but neither wants to own up

Here the kettle doesn’t whistle, does it know he’ll say…

CHORUS