I lay the knives, sharp, on the table, flat. 
Notes of cinnamon and spices should keep the tempo light,
As I conduct the kitchen, for my dinner party tonight. 

 

Knock knock, they melodically rap upon the door,
I go to greet my fine guests, yet moments before,
I turn back from the handle, for I'm not so sure,
Which of the four seasons should delight my decor?

 

To choose only one, then three would be cleft.
If summer's the option, is winter bereft?
Yet spring and autumn, whilst both semi-brief,
Must not be ignored, lest Tony give me grief. 

 

Tony, my guest - oh my, of course!
I've dragged on for so long he's still waiting at the door. 
In he can come, with Seb next along,
Then old deaf Bernard, cursed to never hear a song. 

 

Only one man is late, as the door locks and bolts.
3 of 4 seats are taken, the last one is Walt's. 
Our friend, a dancer, but I'm afraid not tonight.
He's strictly bed bound, after a bad case of stage fright. 

 

But enough with the sadness, I must quickly change key.
I'll pitch a joke, but what could it be?
Alas, it seems I've missed with my remark, 
For mocking poor Walter, I appeared brooding and dark.

 

I realise my mistake, and before the sharp knives can attack,
I atone for the tone that I took with my joke.
Who knew such a party would be oh so Baroque?