The Cry of a Cooking Pot

THE CRY OF A COOKING POT

 

I have seen strange things,

tasted substances

both wonderful and bizarre.

I’ve been tortured and caressed,

all by those two-legged beings.

You may call me deep

but it depends on what

I’m asked to keep.

I’m not shallow

like the frying pan

nor as abased as the stove.

Neither do I have a kettle’s nose; 

always in the air.

 

From brilliant recipes

have many digressed.

Concoctions here and there.

Oftentimes, I barely rest.

 

I once had an owner.

How lazy he was!

All I ever was to him

was a brand new gift.

He left me for the microwave.

Argh! That electronic wimp!

Into her belly he would toss in some fries, Chinese food,

burgers and whatsoever.

I was soon forgotten like firewood.

 

I remember my last owner:

Thunderous blows here and there.

I made everything till my butt got terribly burnt.

I lost a handle,

got whipped by an angry ladle.

Oh, those nights of stench!

Laying filthy on the cold steel

next to the kitchen’s sill.

 

My owner used me till I cracked.

I lost a handle,

got beaten by an angry ladle.

Thunderous blows here and there.

Soon I flew out of the window unto the welcoming soil

with never a drop of water to boil.