It's not that I'm not talented, It's not that I'm not skilled, I've won accolades and scholarships, From portfolios I've filled.
I can play any note you like, And of course, they're all in key. There really is no artist, Who's my equal... (artistically.)
I've written several novels, Of every theme and every genre, And have all poetic devises nailed, From rhyme to double-entendre.
But, for my sins, I cannot cook, I can manage only toast. And what's the point of being proud, If I lack one thing to boast!
I throw pots perfectly on a wheel, And then throw them at the wall - When my pasta manages to burn complete, And the soufflés rise and fall.
I'm a genius in the studio, But gormless at the table. Hopeless shelling seafood, And with macaroons, unstable.
I can paint a rainbow canvas, And dance to every beat, But lord help me with all veggies, All the cereals, fruit, and meat.
My jellies are as hard as stone, But my rock cakes are all gloop. There's far too much seasoning in everything, Except, for some reason, the soup.
And I can play the cruel Iago, Ask of daggers before mine eyes, But convincingly parade my pastry? Well that's all a pack of lies.
So I suppose I'll stick to song and dance, And paints and poetry. Leave the cooking to someone talented, And have a take-away for tea.