Sorry?? I don't do kitchen fantasies!!


Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! I'm free from the fate,

Of being a domestic goddess, an apron-clad mate,

No kitchen slave, I! No, I shan't be tamed,

By the siren song of saucepans, the seduction of flames.


For I’m a gourmet of dreams, a Michelin-starred brain,  

And your apron fantasies are a bit too plain.  

So darling, take your pots, your pans, your plight,  

And cook up a fairy tale elsewhere tonight  


No, my dear, I’m not your rotis and rice queen,  

I serve sarcasm for dinner, and ambition between.  

If you dream of casseroles with love baked inside,  

Find a microwave sweetheart; I’ve got goals worldwide.


Would you like a side of “Please, wash your plate”?  

Or a sprinkle of “Why is dinner always late?”  

Because if apron strings are what tie us in knots,  

Let me snip them, dear, before the tension rots.  


My fantasies? They involve breaking glass ceilings,  

Not cracking eggs for omelets with tender feelings.  

I spice up boardrooms, not bland stews,  

And bake revolutions, not dinner for twos.  


So, here’s my proposal: takeout and chill,  

Or perhaps find a chef to fulfill your thrill.  

Because my fire’s in my soul, not under your pan,  

I’m not here to complete your five-course plan.  

 

For this storm in heels won’t simmer or stew,  

The only flame I kindle doesn’t involve you.  

For I am a woman of substance, of fire and of flame,

Not some kitchen-bound siren, with a culinary claim to fame,

My passions lie elsewhere, in the realm of the bold,

Not in the kitchen, where the only heat is cold.


So, take your kitchen fantasies, and shove them, dear,

I'll take my freedom, my individuality, my life, and hold it dear.

For I am a force to be reckoned with, a storm to abate,

Not some kitchen-bound damsel, in a culinary state.

And if you can't handle that, if you can't take the heat,

Then get out of my kitchen and take your fantasies to the street!








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