Breakfast

In the morning, most likely,
Before I wake up entirely,
Go zombie chef in the kitchen --
With your permission
Of course.
After intercourse
I like to show appreciate
With a culinary creation,
Though I must forewarn
After making private porn
I will rate
With what I create;
Cinnamon buns burnt
To hockey pucks weren't
The most subtle sign,
But the grapevine
Tends to twist
Ruining the gist
Of anything less than obvious,
And I prefer things propitious,
So some subtlety is lost,
But of those buns the frost
Was exquisite.
See there's a poset
I won't get into,
The comparable
And incomparable
Leading to one another
And all other
Dimensions of meaning
Whereby even the demeaning
Isn't the sole perspective,
Raw bacon as invective;
And contriwise
Fruit salad may harbor
Hidden whole cloves to mark her
Sweet exterior, but inner
Bitter.
I've fashioned:  chocolate chip pancakes,
Vanilla olive milkshakes,
Greasy English breakfast,
French toast the size  of Texas,
Salty roasted crickets,
Dry mealy biscuits,
Soul food fossils,
And sweet, crispy chicken and waffles.
As such at your say
I'll be on my way
To cook without cogitating
Subconsciously rating
The sex we had;
However, if that'll make you mad,
I could just leave.
Yet, as I've come to apperceive
The reward is worth the risk.
Do you like bisque?