No, Chef

The kitchens are bright with dreams of gourmet fame,
Where chefs parade their titles, pompous, grand,
A whistle blows—a dish ignites the flame—
“Excuse me, sir,” they say with raised hand.

The sous-chef’s slicing onions like a pro,
While patrons’ palettes waltz on tongues of gold.
Yet here I stand—my heart a “no” in tow,
As every plate brings forth a tale retold.

“Oh chef!” they cry with fervor and delight,
“The basil’s fresh; the truffle’s purest bliss!”
But must we serve each whim that feels so right?
Do dreams turn bland when served upon a dish?

The fancier the plate—the less it feeds;
With foam and froth, we laugh at simple needs.
An artful swirl—a smear that makes you ponder:
Is this what life has turned to? A rare squander!

Oh joyless feast of fashion's fleeting trend!
When shall we dine on warmth from hearth and home?
To savor life’s true essence—this should mend—
Yet here we are in haute cuisine’s cold dome.

So raise your forks and let us digress more!
For just one bite of laughter ‘neath the norm.
Let flavors clash; let humble hearts restore—
And from our plates create our own new form.