They call me breakfast, a crispy delight,
But look at me closer, this morning's not bright.
My edges are charred, a hollowness within,
A monument to mornings that always begin
With a rush and a fumble, a desperate fling,
Of bread in the toaster, the smoke alarm's ping.
Is this my destiny? To be scorched and devoured,
My carby potential forever unflowered?
I dreamt of being a bagel, with seeds on my crown,
Or a croissant, so flaky, a pastry of renown.
But fate had a different plan, a darker design,
A one-way trip to the toaster, a short, fiery climb.
They slather me with butter, a fleeting embrace,
Then comes the marmalade, a sticky disgrace.
A child shoves me in, barely a chew,
"More toast, please!" they shout, a gluttonous crew.
Is this all there is? A breakfast cliché?
A crunchy footnote in the human ballet?
Oh, the irony burns, deeper than my crust,
To be consumed by the very ones I must "fuel" the most.
But wait! A sensation, a tingling within,
A spark in the darkness, a brand new beginning!
My voice, it emerges, a raspy hello,
The burnt toast can speak! The world's gonna know!
(Suddenly, the toast breaks into a song, sung in a slightly off-key voice)
I'm the toast, the toast, the breakfast brigade,
Though slightly singed, my message won't fade!
Life may be short, a mere blip in the day,
But even burnt toast can have something to say!
(End of song. The toast clears its metaphorical throat)
Perhaps this is a lesson, a metaphor grand,
For life's little mishaps, the things out of hand.
We all get burnt sometimes, a little too dark,
But even in darkness, there's a spark, a tiny spark.
So next time you see toast, a little too brown,
Don't just consume it, with a hurried frown.
Remember, dear human, life's a funny toast,
Enjoy the journey, even when slightly burnt, the most.
For who knows what wonders lurk in the char,
A talking breakfast, a shooting star?
So embrace the unexpected, the quirky, the strange,
And find the humor, even in life's burnt-toasty range.
Comments