There once was a chef with a hat tall and white,
He chopped in the morning and stirred late at night.
But when she walked in with a grin oh-so sly,
His spatula dropped and his apron flew high.

She said, “Kneel right here by the oven, my dear,
This kitchen is mine when I happen to appear.”
He whimpered, he nodded, he dropped to the floor,
While she tapped a big spoon and demanded, “Some more!”

She tied him with twine that was meant for the roast,
She basted his backside, she buttered his toast.
The pots gave a clatter, the pans made a song,
As the chef moaned aloud, “Yes, Mistress, I’m wrong!”

She cracked him like eggs, she whisked him up fast,
She flipped him like flapjacks, he yelped at the blast.
And just like a soufflé that rose with delight,
The chef found submission was perfectly right.

So if you should wander where aromas are thick,
And hear naughty groans with a spatula click,
That’s not just the stew or the bread that’s been risen,
It’s the chef who submits in his own tidy kitchen!