Who seemed too stoned and legless, vast of trunk,
Try his dessert. It wasn't as he'd planned
(A shattered soufflé, dried and burnt, half sunk);
With wrinkled lip and sneer, he called it "bland",
This dish that he had sculpted, left for dead.
But wait! He had not cooked his spicy wings,
Suffused in scobels, marinated red!
Yet when the guests came round he boldly bloked
"My name is Ozzy, man! Dine on these things!"
They looked upon his works and nearly choked;
Nothing but sweet was cooked. The wings were raw
As was the main course, while his soufflé smoked,
The sacrificial pyre of cooked-too-far.