My world of poetry

I was born a chef

They say I don't know how to cook
And all I do is be in a book
But they don't know I'm reading
And looking for recipes for kneading

I would often hid my mittin
When I'm not in the kitchen
They often send me to bake
And also prepare birthday cake

My punishment is to prepare dinner
As if I'm a saint and not a sinner
But shame on them and their beef
Because I was born a chef to their chief