A Cakewalk
A poem about literally that

They said it’d be a cakewalk, As though that made much sense. To sprout legs beneath the flour, Butter set solid, thick and tense.
A dessert now anthropomorphised, Waltzing beneath the sun. Walking, talking, living alive, Wouldn’t the icing start to run?
Supposedly, it means pretty easy, As if a pastry quite often does sport. To think that I might stroll on past, A muffin — without a second thought?
Forgive me if I’m baked with doubt, I just find it a little absurd. The idea that a cake is pacing about, With trainers the colour of lemon curd.
But then I guess if cats can do it, Why not just sugar and eggs? 200 degrees, for 45 minutes. Give it enough time to bake the legs.






