The whys of why I’ll never be
A cook is pretty plain to me;
There are no rhymes that make much sense,
It’s all too rushed and too intense.
A pinch of this, a splash of that,
How much? Why just a little dash..
You might as well say bugaboo
Along a heap of scooby-doo.
Instead of pinch, how ’bout an inch?
And why not slab instead of dab?
Somehow these substitutes don’t fly
As well as you may think…don’t cry.
An art? For sure, I understand
That cooking’s not for every hand,
Especially one that likes to rhyme,
To cook can be an awful crime.