I sometimes find that, in my head
There’s little else but thoughts of bread
Toasted, fried or freshly baked
It makes my hungry stomach ache
To think of all the types there be
T’would matter not a jot to me
If bread was all there was for tea.
A French baguette? I’d sing for love!
An Indian naan? Praise heavens above!
Who’d guess that flour and water’d go?
To make this blissful, tasty dough?
And how on earth would we get by
If sourdoughs, bagels, pittas, rye
Did not exist for us to try?
I think I’d die.