Sand-Witcher

Chicken salad,

buttered toast,

scrambled eggs

and cup noodles,

cold cut sandwich,

flatbread pizza.

Nix your negs,

I make the most

of culinary doodles

in the margins

of my composition book

(that's my kitchen).

Look, I'm certain Gordon's wishin'

from within his Sistine Chapel

that he could hang me

from the gallows for my apple

and peanut butter treason.

Seasoned

with one or all of

pepper, garlic,

big pink salt,

basil and oregano,

my dishes are grizzly,

greasy assaults

upon the sophisticated palette. Oh,

I never bought a mallet

and I'm new to doing meat.

Guess I'll have to beat it

with my fist for now.

Ow!

That poor old sow,

what were they feeding her,

puppy chow?

Her flank's as hard

as The Rock's furrowed brow,

it took an hour

to tenderize.

Anyway,

I send replies

to trendy guys

and girls who review my food.

"It'll bend your eyes!"

(What?)

"It ends divides!"

They tend to cry

things along these

tender lines.

See,

a mender finds

ways to make people happy,

whether he's conventionally skilled

or not.

In this regard,

one of my favorite magics

is the simplicity I dish out

with my pans and pots.

Tsss.