Baking Bread

In this post I shall recall one of my early experiences with cooking in my university's kitchen, without my trusty fajita maker (on which I cook everything now). This experience was making bread, as the title suggests. I managed to flood the kitchen with black smoke, almost setting off the smoke alarm. Yang, my Chinese flatmate and I spent the subsequent half an hour, choking on the fumes, and trying to air out the kitchen. Good times.
Here I present my poem:

Baking Bread

Pasty rolls and oven hot

Put away till tops get spots

Pre-rolled and pressed

Practically prepared

So what’s wrong with it?

My dear, why care?

Darkened top and oven hot

Put away rolls, with more than spots

Blackened smoke, panicked shouts

God, will someone stop these pouts?

The oven’s broke- well what’s new?

It’s college dear, what’s wrong with you?