When Ida puts her armor on <br />And draws her trusty blade <br />The turnips in the bin turn pale, <br />The apples are afraid. <br />The quiet kitchen city wakes <br />And consternation feels, <br />And quick the tocsin pealeth forth <br />In long potato peels. <br /> <br />When Ida puts her armor on <br />The pots and pans succumb, <br />A wooden spoon her drum-stick is, <br />A mixing pan her drum; <br />She charges on the kitchen folk <br />With silver, tin and steel <br />She beat the eggs, she whips the cream, <br />The victory is a meal. <br /> <br />When Ida puts her apron on <br />Her breast-plate is of blue. <br />(Checked gingham ruffled top and sides) <br />Her gauntlets gingham, too; <br />And thus protected from assault <br />Of batter, stain and flour <br />She wars with vegetable foes <br />And conquers in an hour. <br /> <br />When Ida puts her armor on <br />She is so fair to see <br />Her battle with the kitchen folk <br />Is reproduced in me; <br />So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie, <br />So good her kitchen art <br />I hardly know which loves her best <br />My palate or my heart.<br /><br />Ellis Parker Butler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-ida-puts-her-armor-on/
