Gas Stove

Every day, the master wields knives and guns above my head, chopping vegetables and then forcing me to face the public, burning with passion. Sometimes he twists my knob, as if wringing out a lazy bum who refuses to wake up. 'Click, click, click——' That's my bones protesting, until with a 'WHOOSH,' I finally spew out angry blue flames. I warm the cold iron pot with the heat of my soul, watching garlic do a frantic tap dance inside. But what I hate the most, is when the master watches dramas while simmering soup. When the broth overflows with a 'glug glug glug,' it's serious, deliberate murder against me! With a 'fsssssssh,' I heroically sacrifice myself, my face covered in sticky soy sauce and tears. When the master rushes over in a panic, wiping me and apologizing: 'Sorry, I'll definitely turn it to low heat tomorrow.' Hmph, a man's mouth is a lying ghost, I'll still burn his fried fish to a crisp tomorrow.