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 olโ€™ ripper did not name these
little beauties, the flapping of wings
did, though โ€ฆ
Ah, the wait for the cake (cake?)
the final step in my love make
ing, the wait the wait the โ€ฆ wait
for the first kiss of her sweet lips

โ€” awaits.

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