In Praise Of Sir Loin Poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg

In most of the restaurants of today
There are no cooks, only chefs, sad to say.
Be gone vile chef who now would dare
To drown my succulent, medium rare
In sauces, with such pungent taste,
My budding senses are laid to waste,
Unable to appreciate
What lies, now hidden, on my plate.


The accompanying mushrooms, true to form,
Taste not of mushrooms, as is the norm
But of garlic, that disgusting herb
Which means speech with friends I now must curb.
I am forced to wonder, do they hide from me
Some lack in the meat of quality?
Or, perhaps, a sad inability
Of the chef to cook quite adequately?


Last night I gave my instructions clear
No cover-ups are needed here.
It came steak, mushrooms and French fries,
A delight to my now jaded eyes.
The mushrooms tasted as they should
The chips, not sauce soggy, they were good.
My steak, with subtle, succulent taste,
Just melted, savoured without haste.


I will praise the provider long and loud
You can and are a cook – be proud.