The Kettle That Never Stops

On Maple Street, in number three, a little kettle makes the tea.

It starts to boil at half past eight, and no one taught it how to wait.

It whistles loud, it whistles long, it whistles like a happy song.

The steam goes up, the steam turns white; it boils all day, it boils all night.

Grandpa reaches for the plug. The kettle whistles, warm and smug.

Mom says, “Stop!” and shakes her head. The kettle whistles on instead.

At last they think, why fight the thing? They fetch their cups and let it sing.

So now the neighbors come for tea on Maple Street, at number three.

The kettle whistles, bright and proud, the only pot that sings out loud.