Today My Toaster Talked To Me
Today my toaster spoke to me,
Of all of the things that she could see --
A spoon-rest, the stove
the mixer, she says, who
Does not behave.
I listened, I learned, I stood there and trembled,
Frightened to find my mind disassembled.
What in the world? Oh,
How could this be --
Inanimate objects were talking to me!
Would I now write
like a monkey on crack?
Produce nothing but drivel,
Turn into a hack?
Then the spatula shouted, "Don't believe all that tripe!
When you are in doubt, write a stereotype!
Paint a broad, foolish stroke -- use clichés and
Weak tricks; and when people notice
You can call them all pricks."
The coffee pot chuckled and grinned fiendishly,
But I know his affliction -- bipolarity.
And I cannot remember a thing that he said,
Milquetoast ramblings rarely stay in my head.
The toaster then whined,
"Pay attention RIGHT HERE!
You know that my talents kick yours in their rear.
I've pointed that out, more often than not,
But you are the one
undeservedly hot. "
I glanced at the toaster and
Swallowed my pity,
Reminded myself that
The toaster writes shitty.
The kitchen then slowed into something like stillness,
I knew, for a fact,
this was some mental illness.
I could have said something, I could have been cruel,
But I do not deign to respond to a fool.
There may be some hatred, and
A whole lot of tension,
At least I lay claim to
And when you are leaving, I cannot say more
Than good luck to you, sweetheart --
Watch your ass with that door.