​The hunger hits like a freight train’s roar, I’m foraging through the pantry drawer. I’m no longer human, I’m a ravenous beast, Searching the kitchen for a five-course feast. ​The recipe says, "Chop the onions fine," But I don’t have the patience, nor the time. I’ll just hack them into blocks of wood, If it’s fast and edible, it’s "chef-level" good. ​"Sauté for ten minutes until golden brown," I look at the pan with a murderous frown. Ten minutes? Ten years! I can’t wait that long! My stomach is singing a "Feed Me" song. ​I crank up the heat to a million degrees, While searching for bags of frozen peas. The smoke alarm chirps—a festive sound— As I drop a whole carton of eggs on the ground. ​The floor is a swamp, the counter is chaos, The ghost of Gordon Ramsay is here to flay us. "It’s raw!" he screams in my hangry brain, As I eat a dry cracker to numb the pain. ​I reach for the salt but I grab the spice, And season my pasta with "Cajun Ice." It’s burning! It’s crunchy! It’s mostly a mess! I’m wearing more sauce than my kitchen dress. ​I stare at the pot, a blackened, burnt bowl, The "culinary art" has taken its toll. I toss the spatula, I give up the fight, And reach for the phone in the dim kitchen light. ​"Hello? Pizza Hut? I need a Large Pepperoni..." Because my "homemade" meal is a big fat phony. I sit on the floor, defeated and weary, With a plate of burnt toast and a vision that's bleary. ​Nothing beats a "failure pizza" after a kitchen war!