Mad margarine and messy marmalade.
I'm a French Omelette.
I live in a saprophytic,not symbiotic,cosmos.
Mushrooms.(Seriously).And I turn down
Onion Soup.Tastes somewhat like grass.
Not the intoxicating variety.
Will you take me to a chapel?
To offer prayers?Can a French Omelette pray?Is it allowed?
Would it have been better
had there been some olives(in me)?
Olive branches being,you know, symbolic.
You have them in pieces of peace,corny
and cliched as it sounds.
Being transcendental art,or thereabouts.
Akin to me.
I wasn't born to be breakfast.
Born for greater things?Like a square meal?
No;not born symmetrical.
Ah,said the discerning gourmand: