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Stood with head slightly bowed
In revered awe and silent

Dutifully cold, and nimble in their move

Dusty white craters with steepened sides
Where butter tumbles in freefall and gels to flour

It peers at me anxiously
As I threaten the creamy mass exterior

Probing my fingers into the neatness
Then pressing my wooden baton as cries yelp forth

Calls surrender as the thinness lies deflated upon a board
Then the surplus drops to the ground

Wasted not,
But full of use

A sun drenched appearance, not tanned,
But golden

Apple juice sizzles as my knife
Makes a wound  

Superciliousness is not an attractive trait
As it will discover

The arrogant demeanour
No more

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