Oh, hey, a short poem about cooking!
Sauce is boiling, steam is rising,
Scent of herbs is in the air.
The sharpest knife lies unattended,
Nestled next to diced produce.
Vegetables of every color,
Sorted up in tidy piles,
Waiting for the moment when they,
Join their brethren in the pot.
Salt and pepper fall like raindrops,
Merging with the sauce below.
The frying pan next door is empty,
He has already done his job.
Soon the pot will cease to bubble,
Like some wicked witch’s brew,
Then from cupboards with a clatter,
Plates emerge to be filled up.