Oh how you glisten,
Your encrusted top--
Just listen for the dainty pop
Out of the fire and onto my plate--
What a wholesome loaf of fate.
Sing for your supper,
Write for your dinner,
If you can't
Make the dough this time,
I guess you'll be thinner.
The upper crust,
no muss, no fuss,
Day old bread in the bin
with the dust,
Crumbs flung in disgust-
to peck at,
The People
made to bow, as fowl,
consuming their pittance.
Try and run away with the
Milk and a spoon--
Cast off into an
Ocean of milk,
but the small ship sinks
with nothing but a spoon
To row through all the cream.
Drown the milk in chocolate,
and maybe it'll be sweeter
to choke down
past the lumpy chunks.