Cookery class

How I wished I had paid attention, when I was at school, I wasn’t a particularly gifted child, in cookery as a rule. But with my Pinney on, I would have a go and try, To follow the directions, and ingredients I would bye. The instruction given on a list, and equipment neatly laid, Ingredients for my creation, to go towards a grade. But following rules is not in my nature, as all would find out why, When on the opening of the oven, I would take possession of an incinerated pie. And when I make the custard, I would always get it wrong, Its boiling in the pan on high, and it’s taking far too long. With lumps of unmixed custard powder, that I end up pushing through a sieve, And at the end of the cookery lesson, to the teacher I would give. The cremated remains of what should have been, an apple pie desert, The teacher arms herself with a spoon, with which she would insert. She hammers through the pastry, to get at what may lurk beneath, I hope that she doesn’t taste it, as it might just break her teeth. All the apples that were inside, are dry and charcoaled at its base, I hope the custard turns out well, to save me from disgrace. Then she tries the custard, and pores out the mixture in a lump, I got an “F” which stands for fail, and I take my failure off to dump. I inquire unto the reason for the “F”, and ask the question “why”? “I think you got Celsius mixed up with Fahrenheit, and had the oven far too high”