At the start of it all the Chef made a cake.
He put in a filling, of jam and cream,
warmed up his big Chef oven
and the cake began to bake.

Placed on the side, left to cool,
insects crawled over it, had insect fights,
lived strong, happy lives,
no wars,
some battles, more like struggles,
but they served a purpose although the insects
did not know it,
and even the Chef would not have been sure.

Chef came along,
added some icing, pink and white,
sugary, nice,
made it perfect, glossed it over,
shone it like ice.

Chef added candles, a border, of green,
little stick people with little stick dogs and cats
with little stick houses slightly better than shacks.

The insects stole icing, crumbs and bits
and built themselves up stronger, became smarter,
learnt tricks.
Insects had parties, brought bottles,
got lost.
Loved one another, sung songs,
wrote books.

Chef lit the candles, 12 sparkly lights,
upsettings the insects,
who had ‘intelligent’ fights and debated
the meaning of candle lighting, into the night.

Insects planned rebellions, hoarded cake,
built fences.
To ensure cake protection; learnt to raise
strong defences.
Insect life got more complicated,
and took on more ‘dimensions’.

Then someone ate the cake.

The insects learnt to live on the crumbs left
behind on the table.
Lived weaker, deeper lives
and told tall stories of imagined crumbs
the size of an insect house.

Until there were no crumbs left.

And the insects died.

And not even the Chef cried.

And the table carried on being a table
even though the insects were dead,
and the cake was gone,
(all the candles were out and in the bin).

The Chef made another mixture,
mixed it up and made it shaped like a cake.
He warmed up the oven,
and put it in to bake.

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