by John Ciardi
Daddy fixed the breakfast.
He made us each a waffle.
It looked like gravel pudding.
It tasted something awful.
“Ha, ha,” he said, “I’ll try again.
This time I’ll get it right.”
But what I got was in between
Bituminous and anthracite.*
“A little too well done? Oh well,
I’ll have to start all over.”
That time what landed on my plate
Looked like a manhole cover.
I tried to cut it with a fork:
The fork gave off a spark.
I tried a knife and twisted it
Into a question mark.
I tried it with a hack-saw.
I tried it with a torch.
It didn’t even make a dent.
It didn’t even scorch.
The next time Dad gets breakfast
When Mummy’s sleeping late,
I think I’ll skip the waffles.
I’d rather eat the plate.
No comments:
Post a Comment