The oven speaks to me
in riddles before termination,
Me Me calling to attention,
ME ME EMPTY ME
it calls to anyone present;
I am
present,
I am 
coming,
I am
the baker, the maker of sweet dreams:
sugar, honey, butter and oats;
(golden syrup would also do)
turned in the oven at 180C
into the sweetest of loves 
there will ever be; ah, Jack
ye ol’ ripper did not name these
little beauties, the flapping of wings
did, though … 
Ah, the wait for the cake (cake?)
the final step in my love make
ing, the wait the wait the … wait 
for the first kiss of her sweet lips

— awaits.