I like to cook.
Alas neither adept,
Nor comfortable with the look,
Of a dish unkempt.

If cuisine is an art,
My work is abstract,
So expressive at start,
Even gourmands retract.

My love for herbs,
Is no mean feat,
Coaxed to add surplus,
Without skipping a beat.

Given the style of cooking,
I am a savage in the kitchen.
My dishes deserve contemplating,
With ample room for bitching.

My cooking’s a lifehack,
Without judgement.
Nothing holds me back,
Spice or condiment.

Veg or meat,
How colourful is my plate?
So wild yet neat,
A Michelin star seem desolate.