The Toaster
May we have
your attention, we feel we should mention,
The toaster we bought doesn't
please.
This ghastly invention, burns toast with intention
And flings it
with consummate ease.
This toaster
has got,just a nine inch long slot,
A small slice of bread measures
five.
Two slices cannot, fit well in that spot
For there's really no room
there to jive.
You must
surely admit, this shouldn't be it,
Good toast is no matter of luck.
The
slices should fit, brown nice, then a click
And gently and quietly pop up.
It is little
to ask, that it should do this task,
With efficiency, care and
finesse.
The Olympics are past,it should toast and not cast
And give us
this daily distress.
We hate and
abhor eating toast from the floor,
Where an uncaring toaster has tossed
it.
It's become quite a bore, to see our toast soar
And to find all the
places its lost it.
We'd value
your action, your swift interaction
With advice that will curb the damn
thing.
To teach this contraption to give satisfaction,
To toast, to pop
up, but not fling.
Copyright; John Pickersgill
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