I was a chef for all my life
And made my living by the knife.
But try and try my uttermost
I could not turn bread into toast
Now lobster bisque was more my speed
Made duck confit for those in need
My mousse you'd find quite rich and thick
But making toast was not my shtick.
One fateful day, it grew too much
"I must learn toast!" I cried, "I must!"
I kissed my kids and hugged my hubby
Then locked myself in toastly study.
Toast is bread that's somehow changed
Its molecules are rearranged
It gains some crispness, loses bend-
Is that what toast is, in the end?
My beard grew long, my notes as well
I felt so lost in toasty hell
When finally I was inspired-
I'd just hold bread over a fire!
I stacked my cookbooks one by one
(I added gas, but just for fun)
I knew the risks, I played the game
I touched the gas to hand-torch flame.
I guess the gas I'd overloaded
My study pretty much exploded
I stepped from the study, glad no one was hurt
And saw my sweet hubby, fatally burned.
My kids weren't much better, my daughter flambéd,
My son had gone on to meet Harambe.
Just for some toast my whole family died
I cursed my study, and my own foolish pride.
As smoke alarms screamed I stalked through the flames
And made my way slowly to the object of blame.
I busted down doors, and broke a few locks
And lifted the lid on my dreaded bread box.
I grabbed up a loaf, I think some whole wheat
And used my late husband as a source of some heat.
As I crunched on the crust, the flames growing higher
I ate my first toast, and with it I expired.
If there's a moral to what happened that day,
It's to value the toast that you eat every day.
Or maybe the moral that I take to the last
Is be careful, this winter, and don't use too much gas.