UnPoetia:Oven Head an Ode To A Great Poet

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I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Often do I eat, but never do I swallow.
It starts from raw, I heat it until it is cooked
I am not cruel, it is just my purpose –
The mouth of a little god, four-ringed.
Most of the time I close my large mouth and stay cold.
I am green, with knobs. They count up to six.
My shelf is like a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Steaks and Pies separate us over and over.
Now I am a bee-box. A woman crouches down to me.
Searching my reaches for the shelf that is in the way.
Then she turns to those knobs, turning them up to five or six.
I see her head, and swallow it faithfully
She rewards me with muffled screams and kicking of legs.
I am important to her. She breathes deep, and dies.
Tomorrow morning it is her face that will replace the shelf.
In me she has gassed a young girl, and in me her dead corpse
Rots away day after day, like a slice of out of date Pie.
Possibly blackberry flavour.