Though fairly new to writing,
please let me share some knowledge -
don't edit simultaneously
with trying to cook your porridge.
For fifteen minutes left on high
produces quite a smell,
a heaving mass of blackened goo,
and saucepan shot to hell.
With hindsight, I’d have saved the sweat,
ironing out the kinks;
I trashed my favourite cooking pot -
and still the poem stinks.