Dawn of devil,
Goodness on grill.
Pending breakfast bill,
Restaurant on red clouded hill.

What somberness these dishes hold,
Some delicious dishes unsold.
Fragrance coming out very old,
Rotten human flesh in the plate gold.

Cooked on dark fire,
Instruments are snatched, not on hire.
Invisible but dangerous flame,
Is so effective, one human can’t inhale.

Kitchen so well set,
nitrogen gas for blood wet.
Silent cooking happens here,
This far has reached devil’s dare.


(c) Anuj Kumar
The Squire: Page-A-Day-Poetry