Breakfast Is Ready

My frame on the old oak chair, Is a sight that curls your lip, We tried to hold the illusion, But after time we let it slip, The highs and lows of your voice, into your song I used to chime, Now over runny eggs, I hear your voice and hide mine, For the food as well as your life, Is really a bore to you, I season it with my tears, Hold my cries in til you are through, When you leave I wash the kitchen, And sit back on my chair, The door is five feet away, But I've never made it there...