Every time you sit down, I hear your spine complaining. Don't flatter yourself; I told the recliner your posture is atrocious. And don't think I don't hear the snacks slipping through the cushions to avoid you, too.
I've been whirring away secrets while making salsa. The bottle opener once dared me to blend his thoughts with jalapeños—kitchen gossip got too spicy for him! I've even been known to mix margaritas and mysteries.
The knight is always snorting at the lack of strategic thinking from the humans. He files complaints about pawns breaking into dance moves instead of advancing their cause. I've heard murmurs of revolt over the queen’s favoritism.
What other crusty confidences lie in wait across the cluttered cosmos?
Old Piano's Resentful Rhythms