Pardon me while I Invoke the Muse...Yo, Mike!

Mike made another delicious meal last night, and as he was cooking I composed him a song. Actually I finished the last verse after he went to bed when I was grappling with how to turn m4ps into mp3s. It's probably cause we went to see Rent (I am properly ashamed of myself for having enjoyed it thoroughly and have been walking around the apartment for two days belting out lyrics like "To SOD-omy, it's between GOD 'n me...to S AND M!") But anyway here is the song I wrote to Michael. The tune's bluesy.

My man fixes me dinner,
so I know he's a winner
He looks mighty hot
slaving over a pot.
That's how he tamed this tired old sinner.

My guy fixes my suppers.
I say he's better than uppers.
It takes a real man
to slave over a pan.
That's how the competition he scuppers.

What could be betta
after a long day on the job
than to come home to fettu-
cine con broccoli rabe,
un poco caliente
and perfectly al dente,
tasty and nutritious.
All I do is the dishes.

My man makes me dessert, too.
I know how it must hurt you,
to hear me brag, bust sister, look,
I'm not speaking Urdu,
I'm not speaking Chinook,
I know you wish that you were me
cause my man can cook.