I bake.
When the answers slip my hand.
When I can't understand.
When I can't sit around.
When I am joyful or profound.
When I am renound.
I bake. I bake. I bake.

I cook.
When the world seems too scray.
When I can't sleep soundly.
When I can't speak loudly.
When I am sad or lonely.
When I am hungry.
I cook. I cook. I cook.

And when I don't know what I want there is always the recipe book.

Dear Mr.Wine.......
Why doth you taste indefinitely divine?
Was it your soft yet hard sealed cork,
Or was it medusa, your duchess renound sort?
So ruby rose you are, an elixir for the affluent
Your taste yet sour nor sweet, sometimes bitter
You are to me,
Yet it all begins from opening you
From using my turnstile top of thine corkscrew!
I call it the corkscrew bop
Spinning of the top, to pop the cork off
Does my corkscrew do
So that we may drink a few

Soul
My soul has been cheerfut since the magic pill
A month later I visited the renound  psychiatrist
He drearily informed me what I had been taking
Was indeed a sugar pill
I walked out completely outraged
My soul returned
Back to the black hole
I am dreadfully disappointed there is no pill to relieve
Me except for that magic sugar pill