The Toaster poem

The Toaster

by: John Pickersgill

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.


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