The Kettle

The light
It gleamed brightly through the darkness of the kitchen
The only sounds to be heard
Was the singing of the silver bird

The kettle’s song
Higher and higher
The pitch increased
The soprano was taking over the melody

But like all beautiful remedies
The song had to come to an end
The soprano had transcended the range of her vocals
So the kettle started to yodel

Hissing and whistling and whining
Struggling to produce a sound
Her time in the spotlight on the stage was over
So the sound of the kettle decimated into a mushroom cloud