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.