Why You Little!

When I was born, they sliced me up
Into a thousand pieces (“Urgh!”
                                                But it doesn’t have to look
So grotesque! Picture it
Like a cartoon: some Itchy and Scratchy effects).
                                                                                To bring me
Back together                I stitched stories
Between my severed                parts
And pulled hard, the words
Having to be wild and mighty (“Quite a dish        of creativity?” Yep);
                                                                                Only
The chefs (“Why chefs?” Because of the dish        thing!        “But that was m-“
                                                                                        And
Aren’t there always        too many ingredients
Shouting at us?): they rubbed
Salt in my wounds. Tried sabotaging        my stories.
And my writing was already aggravated enough!
                                                                                Then
The sous chefs        in suits (“Uniforms…?” Yep.
“I get you!” Great!): they got        tricked
Into thinking I was born                        in pieces!
                                                                                But O

Well. No need to worry.
                                Because I am better
                                                                At weaving stories together
Than all of them; and as my prose

Pulls the baby back together, the chefs
Might find my narrative ain’t too hot
On them—that I’m a recipe
For their disaster now (““Doh!”?” Nice! “Doh!” indeed).