or,
The Tale of Wanting It All

I walked with Kate through park-lit moons,
she spoke in stars and silver spoons.
By morning light, came Edith’s call,
her voice a breeze, her laugh, a squall.

Two hearts aligned in different hues,
one wore red, one sang the blues.
I tried to juggle flame and mist,
with every touch, a love I missed.

Kate brought joy, a sugar glaze,
her kiss, a rush, her smile a daze.
Edith offered deeper spice,
with wit that cut and warmth precise.

But soon, the clocks began to squeal,
truth peeled back my furtive zeal.
For secrets have a bitter crust,
and tales like mine outgrow their lust.

Then came the reckoning, swift and neat:
You want Kate and Edith? That’s “Cake” and “Eat…”
My conscience baked me in its pan,
you can't have both, my fickle man.

So now I sit, a fork in hand,
alone beside love’s reprimand,
A lesson carved in candied rue:
You can't have Kate and Edith too.

by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I sat beside the toaster’s hum,
Philosophy with buttered crumb.
Each slice, a lecture crisp and clear,
On failure, heat, and reappear.

First lesson came when bread got stuck,
“Sometimes you rise, sometimes you’re luck.”
Second was a smoky tale:
“Don’t linger when the signs turn pale.”

The jam, a sticky paradox,
It clings but sweetly bends the box.
And don’t forget the marmalade,
It taught me risk, with zest and shade.

I took a bite of burnt regret,
The charcoal edge I won’t forget.
Yet even ash has taste to lend,
When bitter sparks begin to mend.

Now every morning, plate in hand,
I heed the toast, I understand:
Life’s not served neat; it’s scorched, it’s slow,
But butter makes it mostly so.

By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I cracked at dawn beneath the weight
Of choices scrambled on my plate.
Should I be poached, or softly fried?
Do I conform, or yolk with pride?

The bacon mocks with seasoned flair,
“Why not sizzle, if you dare?”
Yet toast just sits, all butter-faced,
Avoiding life, slightly disgraced.

I whisk myself with pinch of thought:
Am I the meal, or just a plot?
The fry pan hums with heated ache,
What if I’m real, but hard to bake?

The waitress pours me existential tea
“Sweet or bitter? Your choice,” says she.
And so I stew, both brave and bland,
In life’s great brunch, I understand.

I’m not just food for fleeting flings,
I’m breakfast served with questioning things.
So tip your cook and raise your glass,
To sunny-side truths that boldly pass.

(By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard)

I woke up craving grammar carbs,
Not toast, nor eggs, nor jelly garbs.
But oven-fresh and piping bold:
A basketful of words retold.

I asked the chef, “Could I get some?”
She said, “You mean thesauribun?”
“That's right,” I winked, “those cinnamon swirls,
But make ’em synonym rolls, dear girl.”

She plated puns with playful flair:
“Bold = brave, daring, debonair!”
I bit into ‘quick’ - it tasted ‘swift’
With side of ‘gifted’ language lift.

‘Happy’ flaked like ‘merry’, ‘glee’,
While ‘tasty’ whispered ‘yummy’ to me.
Each roll a punny paradox,
Hot like ‘fiery’... cool as ‘fox’.

The butter spread was smooth with sass,
Labelled “suave” and “upper-class.”
I asked for jam! She brought ‘preserve’,
With extra ‘savvy’ word reserve.

So now I dine on vowel dough,
My crossword palate set aglow.
No calories, just calories’ friends.
They're simile but never ends.

(in one weary canto)

Lo!
In days when chalk still whispered truths on boards of battle-worn slate,
There rose a lone solver, math's last reluctant knight.
Algebrion, wielder of the Eraser of Forgetting,
Summoned once more to seek Her - the elusive X.
Lost in parentheses, veiled in vectors,
Gone to lands where logic holds no reign.

He trudged through slopes, climbed peaks of Pi,
Crossed rivers marked with irrational tide.
Each function bent to mock his quest,
As the realm of unknowns whispered, “Let her go…”

“Why?” quoth Algebrion,
Gripping his graphing lance with diminishing hope.
“For what cause do I solve, if the answer lies not in formulas - but in forgetting?”

The scrolls of Y did tremble then,
Their queries unquenchable, their axes misaligned.
But our hero turned, not broken, but beautifully fed-up,
And declared to the realm of integers:

“Henceforth, I shall factor no more.
Let the equations remain unsolved.
Let the chalk break in defiance.
I seek not the X - she hath moved on.
And Y… Y shall never know.”

Dear Algebra,
Please stop asking us
To find your X.
She has left
And she will never return,
And don't ask Y.

-Anonymous