I like my solitude,I fear the mob

I have no microwave nor special hob
I  make good food for people whom I like
It may be buttered corn upon the cob.

Into my kitchen you may lemons lob
I’ll freeze them   with my magic lemon spike
I have no microwave nor special hob

I always cooked well though I had a job
I rode to work upon my ancient bike
I may  have buttered corn  for Uncle Bob.

I like my solitude,I fear the mob
I  never smoke though I can strike a light
I haven’t microwaved  induction hobs.

I like a handle better than a knob
I like conversing if I’m feeling quite.
I   fry men battered horns  to fill their gobs

Oh,kitchen unfit, what a  dreadful sight!
Send out the men  to buy me dynamite
I have no microwave nor golden hob
I always  say good morning   with my  love.