Meta Poem

If it’s not for the words and syllables and rhyme

Why do I sentence myself to spend my free time,

concocting new recipes when I could be reading a thriller

Some say it’s more manly; I think meaner than deprive

myself of the making of soup or a word mixture better

Its part of me, like a phantom organ system now

And sickness of it would only wear me down

and make me more irritable than before.

So spare a thought for the cook and never do I recall

a time when I force fed someone a rhyme off the floor for its

mainly for me, I bake bake bake my word cake cake cake.

 

 

 

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