Anna, pour vous:

Chromed tomb; black clay within there darkly lies,
Upon my bench where once the toaster sat.
No effort now are meals with this device;
So simple they can be made by a cat.
Within the earthen belly warm and round,
A miracle unfolds, starts to quicken.
Shanks and stews and soups will all abound,
Gravies rich and luscious slowly thicken.
But to slow cook takes long tortured time,
When not at work to feel the hours speed;
No lifting lid and peaking for a sign,
That tender meat can now fulfil your need.
So long as men have meals they would defer,
So long we’ll celebrate our slow cooker.