Every crumb and crust,
The abominable loaf from the local Panettiere.
I dream of a loaf the size of an iceberg.
When really, an igloo would do.
I would burrow and hide away inside.
A fluffy, toasted, happy shrew.
From the air pockets created by yeast,
To the crispiest of sienna crusts.
I prefer butter, or jam at the least.
Although shmear isn’t always a must.
For as the wind that blows
through every tree knows…
My fancy of bread isn’t love,
But rather it is lust.
Not of Stifle or Finch,
I must say in a pinch,
It is definitely not that of brim.
I would never desecrate,
But rather eviscerate,
The warm fluffy dough from within.
Now I’d hazard to say in an eager way,
That this really kneads to be said.
With all things considered,
Stale or withered,
That this love that I will forever have for bread.