The Naked Chef Poem by Phil Soar

She mixed ingredients with Panache
Would give most recipes a bash
And liked to cook as naked as could be
With just an apron on
She would mix things with aplomb
And present the fine results in front of me

She would always cause a stir
As she flashed her derriere
And the temperature in my oven would be rising
There would be a little thumping
As in my mind we should be humping
Which given the sight before me, was not surprising

As she browned the Christmas cake
That she told me she would make
There was so much that I thought we could be doing
It was hard to keep control
As she made my sausage roll
And I felt that there was something gently stewing

By the time she'd finished cooking
And with my eyes now tired of looking
We decided that we should enter a bake-off
So I mixed some flour and butter
Dragged my thoughts from out the gutter
And poured mixture on her bottom, that I could take off

By the time we'd both exhausted
All the mess that custard sauce did
We were ‘done' and I'd been crowned the master baker
Well, at least that's what she said
As we clambered into bed
And I turned her from a cook to orgasm maker