Out of the oven

A poem triggered by a friend's prompt to start with the line 'He had his head in the bread' - so, here is the result, squeezing a metaphor for all it's worth - and a nod to the old Madness song 'Cardiac Arrest'...

Out of the oven

He had his head in the bread,
The 80s were kind to him, he thought –
Bish-bosh, more loaves of lucre,
Du pain, du vin,
Gold-plated-signet-ringed white-van man,
Now besuited, fake orange-tanned,
But it would soon forsake him,
An empty tin vessel,
Risen, bubbled, burst,
Half-baked and sourdoughed,
Yeastlessly listess and collapsed in the street,
Stone-ground down,
Too stale for even Paul Hollywood’s
Apricot-tinged brand of cheer-batta
To rejuvenate.

Strangers’ faces peer concernedly,
He’s kneaded awake –
“Can you hear us, mate?”
Time to face the whole grain of truth;
He’d been a good bake –
Hadn’t he?
A proven asset?
No - oh, F*caccia!

But surely buttermilk wouldn’t melt in his mouth –
His crusty little heart would for sure,
Coughed up,
Indigestible,
If he’d just leave the bread behind,
Switch off the Maggie-mix,
And dump the dough –

A true artisan would fix him.