We’ve no need of a kitchen
For we subsist on stories

Our shelves store no spices
Only recipes for disaster

In the fridge there is horror
What better place to store chills?

In the oven there is romance
That boils and overspills

In the drawers you’ll find adventure
Best placed for little hands

At the door you’ll find an atlas
Charting distant lands

At the table there are teacups
We like a good drink with our meal

To ensure we are well fed
We cook up tales thrice daily

We start the day recounting dreams
At afternoon we share tales with others

Our evenings often end early,
reading under covers.