Camp Stove

Who made this salty soup? This grease patch? Who?
Who made these fried potatoes? I can't eat
This garbage. Pig's feet? Really? Chicken feet?
It's bad enough they're trying to make do
With blackened hard-boiled eggs and wombat stew,
Without toes in the bowl. I can't repeat
The names of dishes offered, or the meat
Mistreated, all the things I couldn't chew.

The local guidelines don't seem clear enough.
I'm full, but full only of wrath and ire.
Take these great slabs of burnt lamb from the fire:
They're charred, and ashy, and insanely tough,
And probably taste like a twice-broiled scruff.
You said it would be fine. You are a liar.

Slipknot

Forget derision. You deserve much less
Leave love alone. No! Just leave it alone
Don't call your mother on the telephone
She doesn't want to tell you how to dress
Things run just fine without you. You're a mess
"There's nothing you can know that isn't known"
You are a slipknot, not a precious stone
Are we prepared to jettison you? Yes

Remember nothing, living with the moles
Let's set aside the goodness in our hearts
Put our attention on our nether parts
We'll skip the gratitude that's in our souls
Our anagram for "solve" is easy: "voles"
We're in Cloud Cuckoo Land. Here are the charts