Yes, Chef
Kitchen poetry
Yes, Chef.
No, Chef.
Three-bags-motherfuckin’-full Chef.
Hold it down.
Knock it out.
Suck it up.
Sell it.
Sling it.
Fuck you.
Burnt it.
Fuck me.
Sideways and six ways from Sunday.
Today, tomorrow and for fuckin’ ever.
Forever heard
Forever behind
Forever sharp
Pirates, all.
Ragamuffin raunchy roustabouts
Pure vibrating balls of
Burnt flesh and cigarettes,
Soap and sani-buckets
Profanity keeps the sanity
Fresh(ish)
Long past its expiration date
Blades and blood
And sweat and tears
In a melting pot of naive hopes and abandoned dreams
The soup du jour is fucking pain
With a side of salty satisfaction

Fuck yeah, even.
Hell yeah