A Poem about Toast.

I’ve never written a poem about toast,
And I probably never will.
It’s only bread, cut from a loaf
And put in a toaster, or under a grill.

It’s a favourite for breakfast,
With butter or spread,
A popular remedy
For slightly stale bread.

It’s the base of a meal,
(especially for teens),
Served on a plate,
and smothered with beans.

If you eat lots of toast,
You’ll doubtless feel full.
As a subject for poetry,
It’s remarkably dull.

It’s only a slice, cut from a loaf,
And put in a toaster, or under a grill.
I’ve never written a poem about toast, I’m afraid,
And I probably never will.