Spill quadrille (2)

And here’s my other one. This one’s for dverse too.

 

When she spilt the salt
She always threw
A solemn pinch
Into the devil’s eye,
As if he was there
Hovering at her kind
And virtuous shoulder,
As if there were no wars,
No plagues, famines,
Madmen waving guns
Only her clean, quiet kitchen
 

 

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