He said I had lovely puddings:
That no baking powder was needed
To get a rise out of him.
He said my buns had great warmth:
That the dough needn’t be kneaded
For the sin to grow within
He said our flavours complemented each other:
That on the palate we pirouetted like peppercorns;
Pole dancing ‘pon the rolling pin.
He wanted to go to heaven on my spoon,
Felt that divinity was in my chocolate
That my soufflés were deities
That he had found his soul in my jus.
The temperature keeps increasing,
The kitchen is getting hotter -
I don’t want our sauce to split.
Mr Wallace, I realise:
Loving you couldn’t get any tougher than this.