The timer dings,
the door clangs open. Clattering,
I am dragged out, spitting
and hissing and suddenly cold.

No! - put me back! -
I am not finished, put me back
until I'm hard and golden on the outside,
until I'm rich
and mellow on the inside,
until my juices run
clear around a prick.

I have not been there
long enough, I tell you -
yes, I've been seasoned,
stuffed and brined,
and complemented well
by what you've got there
on the side, and by that wine
you bought, but all of that will be wasted -
it's too soon!

Put me back! You'll regret it, you will
think me good and fine and finished,
till you cut too deep and hit too red,
and make a face - "Uck!" - and spit me out.
Well, it won't be my fault,

I told you I wasn't ready.