Dad’s been spruiking about his meals,
Bragging about mum’s delightful squeals,
His skills have now been exposed,
A chef hiding in farmers clothes.

Eggs Florentine, beef wellington, consommé,
The menu they ate on a cold autumn day,
Tuesdays menu he won’t reveal,
No hints, lips very tightly sealed.

How did he do it, I just had to know,
So late one night I peeked in the window,
I must admit, I was quite impressed,
Until I saw Dad, engrossed in Master Chef

Pad in hand, TV stuck on slow mode,
Watching intently Mondays episode,
George was baking a cherry cheesecake,
Lobster thermidor and rib eye steak.

Flipping open the Samsung, he rang the Local,
As he read his menu, he got quite vocal,
No, he didn’t want roast of the day,
Sorry, chef’s quit, gone home to Norway.

So now it’s down to a bowl of cornflakes
Scrambled eggs, trading table cup cakes,  
Dinner is pies bought from the store,
Until Mum’s health is fully restored.

This Mothers Day will be big,
As you know, we’re giving you a pig
So when you’re up and clicking your heels,
Cook a pork belly, then see who squeals.