Pull out your aprons, let us begin.
Separate feelings from wisdom and sense.
Before you start to brew them within
Coat with layers of worries dense.
When the anger begins to froth and fume
And the stench of resentment fills the room
Blend in some tears of sorrow and gloom.
Finally bake in perpetual doom.
We’re almost there. Time to plate.
Serve with a side of wholesome hate.
Do you taste disappointment, mate?
A recipe for disaster can never be great.
(When you watch too many episodes of Master Chef. Is this my creme brulee?)