The proliferation in our town of old microwave ovens recycled as letterboxes prompted these lyrics. If anyone wants to add their own music, feel free!


It’s mounted on the white picket fence,

Now no more than a token

Of an empty marriage that didn’t make sense:

Both were terminally broken.

I worked all hours to keep us afloat

And even attempted to save,

Only to return to a re-cycled note –

“Your dinner’s in the micro-wave.”

You would be out somewhere, (dancing on tombs,

Attending a witches’ coven?)

While I’d come home to the cold, empty rooms

And peer into the micro-wave oven.

I didn’t mind the odd Lean Cuisine

Or the frozen casseroled mutton,

If only you’d occasionally been on the scene,

Equipped with your own de-frost button.

The kids are grown up and live on their own

But your influence fatally lingers:

They can’t get a meal without using a phone.

They still think fishes have fingers!

It seemed only right when you took your leave

And the micro-wave gave up the ghost

To use the oven again to receive

The divorce papers coming by post.

Dave Wellings ©

posted by Clifton Writers @ 10:22 AM 0

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