Sometimes they filed their briefs inside my Aga

Pray, please, for me, you  who my cooker  broke
With faked food,  hot frying in my chamber.
I have seen them griddle, flame, and smoke
That now are  cold and do a  lamb dismember
Sometimes they  filed  their briefs  inside my Aga
And  flaked bread  on my hand; whereon  sheep tgraze;
Busily baking  buns with  a  new range
Spanked by government  fools so  very wise
Twenty more times cooked on ribboned  lace
On these thin oven trays, we twinkled ice
When my denim apron from her neck did fall,
She  caught  a fish  for me in her arms thrall;
Therewithall  while sweetly  we drank Kirsch
She softly asked, “How do you  like your flesh?”
It was no dream: my bread unruly baking.
But all is  bleak now, as I ‘m cooker-les
Entering a  strange new future of uncreating
 Yet I have  all this sweet new yeast to raise  and bless
And she  promises to use  fat cookery books much less
But since that I so kindly am  now served
I ache to know what special meal she loved
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About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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