Sometimes that hot waiter never boils

There’s a black  mark in the kitchen on the floor
It’s cracking with the weight of  fatal thought
I tried to get if off  with vinegar

On my kitchen, I  have got no door
But Penguin  books   about  what peasants ate
There’s a black  stain in the kitchen on the floor

I’ve got Palestinian olive oil
Oranges from Haifa, lemons bought
I  made a dressing with  wine vinegar

I  have eggs from morganatic whores
And fish enjoy their roes, which they don’t ought
There’s a black  cat in the kitchen on the floor

Sometimes that hot waiter never boils
If he’s  tipped I’ll write with him,  I hope.
I  insulate my   food with bugged cigars

Do you ask a  woman if she’s coiled?
Do you invade others in turmoil?
There’s a  sweet man in the kitchen by the door
If he’s Jesus, tell him all  and more.