A Cakewalk

A poem about literally that

Photo by Brooke Lark on Unsplash

They said it’d be a cakewalk,
As though that made much sense.
To sprout legs beneath the flour,
Butter set solid, thick and tense.

A dessert now anthropomorphised,
Waltzing beneath the sun.
Walking, talking, living alive,
Wouldn’t the icing start to run?

Supposedly, it means pretty easy,
As if a pastry quite often does sport.
To think that I might stroll on past,
A muffin — without a second thought?

Forgive me if I’m baked with doubt,
I just find it a little absurd.
The idea that a cake is pacing about,
With trainers the colour of lemon curd.

But then I guess if cats can do it,
Why not just sugar and eggs?
200 degrees, for 45 minutes.
Give it enough time to bake the legs.