Achilles heel

I can make rough -puff pastry,fillet a bream

my Victoria sandwiches turn out a dream

I’ve even been known to churn my own cream

So why can’t I make bread



Though I’ve all the ingredients,cool hands,a scale,

There’s a part of me knows that I’m likely to fail

And all my best efforts end up in a pail

I just cannot make bread



Though my sister, my mother,and her mother too

All showed me quite often just what I should do

I can fix a Martini,knock up a stew

I still can’t make bread



My bedding’s immaculate,fragrant and pressed,

My kids are well-mannered and beautifully dressed

My marriage is blissful,so why am I stressed

I just want to make bread



I can labour for hours when there’s curtains to wash,

My telephone voice is incredibly posh

My bank account’s healthy,I’m not short of dosh

Why can’t I make bread



But hang on ,you’re thinking,there’s plenty on shelves

Fresh every day from the bread-making elves

From a centuries-old recipe kept to themselves

Let them make it instead.