I like it when pancakes happen.
I like it when pancakes don’t.
I could use one to chisel a map in,
But I won’t.
I like it when pancakes steeple.
I like it when pancakes slant.
I’d make pancakes for all of the people,
But I can’t.
I like it when pancakes given.
I like it when pancakes got.
You may think that by pancakes I’m driven,
But I’m not.
No, really. I mean, they’re just pancakes.
This is an actual thing that exists.
For treacherous bagels
I guess it’s not so much strange that it exists, but strange how it’s presented. For one, violently executing your breakfast is sort of grim imagery. For two, it says “Slices Bagels Safely!”, which is really just telling you that it doesn’t trust you to use a knife like a normal human being without cutting your hand off in the process. For three, bagels don’t have heads.
Anyway, here’s a poem:
“Guilty!” cried the piece of toast
(The one the bagel hated most)
And had a bacon friend of theirs
Escort the bagel up the stairs.
The English muffin wept and wept,
For promises she hadn’t kept.
She’d pleaded with the toast in vain;
He’d told her she deserved the pain.
The toast then strapped the bagel down
Upon the deck before the town
And wasted not a single breath
Before pronouncing bagel’s death.
“Have any last requests?” inquired
The egg whom he had once admired.
“Just one,” the breadly circle said,
“Regarding how I’m to be spread:
With cream cheese I go best, you’ll find,
But please, sir – not the salmon kind.”
Salmon cream cheese offends me.
And bagels don’t have heads.