I ache to know what special meal she loved

Pray, please, for me, you  who my cooker  broke

With faked food,  hot frying in my chamber.

I have seen them griddle, flame, and leak

That now are  cold and do a  lamb dismember
Sometime they broiled  their food  inside my Aga

And  flake bread  on my hand; where now they graze;

Busily baking  buns with   their  new range

Blanked by government  fools so  very wise

Twenty more times cooked on ribboned  lace

On  these thin oven trays we twinkled  spies.

When her apron from her neck did fall,

She  caught  a fish   for me in her arms thrall;

Therewithall  while sweetly  we drank Kirsch
She softly asked, “How do you  like your fish?”

It was no dream: my  bread was    duly baking.

But all is  bleak now ,as I ‘m  cookerless

Entering   strange new future of non- creating

 Yet I have  this sweet yeast to raise  and bless
And she  promises to use  fat cookery books much less

But since that I so kindly am  now served

I ache to know what special meals she loved