Lazy fame

I’m quite lazy, not a very hard worker,

A well-known mindless labor shirker.

My family knows me as do my friends,

Never ask me to finish their odds and ends.

I met a person for the first time

And she said, at the drop of a dime:

“You’re that guy, the super lazy one!

You’re pretty famous under the sun.”

I didn’t mind that as it’s quite true.

And it made me likeable in her view.

But that still wasn’t the peak of my fame,

To be quite honest, that was still quite lame.

The peak, the zenith happened one slow day,

Breakfast time, my mind of hay.

I took an apple to start my early feast,

And it spoke up, it’s tongue now released.

“Oh you’re the lackadaisical Letharg of now!

I’m so out of words! I mean wow! Just wow!

I can peel myself to save you the trouble,

You can just stay there and stroke your stubble.

Just point me towards the peeling knife

I’ll do my best to enable your life.”

And so it did, with the knife not sharp

While whistling a tune that sounded like a harp.

As I thanked it quite confounded,

It said “no prob” and left me astounded.

It appreciated my lazy and helped me with haste.

And I just appreciated its sweet taste.

Midnight chicken

I dreamed of feathers and flapping of wings,

Some cluck clucks and egg-shaped things.

I woke up, went down and kitchened myself,

Breakfast time, muesli on the shelf.

Or so I thought, it was gone,

The fruit and seeds too, the list goes on.

Three-pronged footprints on the floor and walls,

Feathers strewn everywhere, along my clean halls.

The front door open, lock picked by a feather,

I was confused adding this all together.

Then I saw a note, a small piece of paper,

Left by the one who performed this caper.

As I read the note, my blood began to thicken:

“You’ve been had by the midnight chicken!”

Breadography

Breakfast time, breakfast time,

Time to make my blood sugar climb.

Ham and cheese on my oat bread,

After some butter I’ve smoothly spread.

I take a bite and leave a mouth’s mark,

It looks like legs and I get a spark.

Stand the bread up and make it take steps,

Dancing on an empty bottle of Schweppes.

The ham and cheese fall off like a dress,

The bread screams shrilly with near-death stress.

Howling it runs back into its bag,

Without its dairy cover, its meaty rag.

The clothes of food fell off of my bread,

Its ensuing scream of scare left me dead.

I didn’t know that bread needed clothing,

And I bet what it feels towards me is loathing.

I didn’t know that my bread was alive,

I can’t eat it, it has to survive,

Tell its cool story to everyone around,

Write a breadography, “Not burned, just browned.”

Breakfast brawl

Having breakfast, toaster full of toast,

That’s my thing, if I’m to boast.

Crispifying toast goes faster with cereal,

For a good day, it’s good raw material.

I spoon the slush into my morning maw,

Hear the toast pop up as I saw with my jaw.

Midflight I hear “Caught you red handed!”

Shouted the toast before it landed.

I hide the bowl under my sleeve,

The spoon I hide, or so I perceive.

“I wasn’t eating, at least not really.

It’s only for the taste, it’s nice and mealy.

You’re the real deal that fills my tummy,

And besides, you’re way more yummy.”

The tabled toast listened quite intently,

It responded not too gently:

“Too late now, your goose got cooked,

I’m off now, plane tickets booked.

Kiribreadi is calling and the call is strong.

Good bye cheater, farewell and so long!”

It crumbled towards the door at the front,

It just left due to my bad affront.

“At least I have you my cereal dear,

You’re always here, I have no fear.”

It bubbled a response, milky and sweet,

Its language liquid, its tongue of wheat.

“I don’t think so, I heard your talk,

I’m only for taste? I’ll go for a walk.

Find the nearest bridge or cliff,

Cerealicide, my resolution stiff.

Bubbly bye bye, you aren’t nice,

I hope your socks are eaten by mice.”

It left too and the very next morn,

I read of a bowl shattered and torn.

Milk everywhere, a horrible sight,

Disastrous scene, spatters of white.

Breakfast for a bed

Today I made breakfast for my bed.

I didn’t make coffee or toast or bread.

That would be silly as beds don’t eat,

The same stuff we do (but that’d be neat).

I got a clean sock, fresh from the dryer,

Crisp and clean, woven by a friar.

Beds love socks to nibble and chew,

At least mine does, I’ve lost quite a few.

I sprinkled some coins on top as a topping,

If it smells coins, there simply is no stopping.

An old key ring with some rusted keys,

The rust on them like our finest cheese.

I found a phone, an ancient Nokia,

For a bed, a delicacy very dear.

A cherry red postcard as a cherry on top,

I hopped to the bedroom with a hoppety hop.

It ate its meal, its sheets wildly flapping,

And, afterwards it did some napping.

My bed on a nap, I then did the dishes,

And knew it’d dream of all the best wishes.