|The Subject of Our Song|
O Muffin! Thou whose nooks and crannies leap
With rich cascades of butter and of jam,
Whose genius lies in gentleness, like sheep,
Amidst more rowdy flavors such as ham,
Awake thyself! For daybreak trumpets loud
The snorts of swine and clucks of poultry, tied
Together with a milk of butter, proud
And eke, so bold, that like the rooster cries
“To dawn! Behold the day is new again!
Thy breakfasting will never once repeat
The maudlin presentation of the same
Poor flavors that you once did ever eat!”
What is this new bread on the counter now?
Part pig, part chicken and, alas, part cow!
Review in the Style of Emily Dickinson:
The muted snout—(it was not death!)—
It did not seek to squeal—
When on the plate it gazed at me—
The semblance of a meal
And to partake—of this repast—
A synthesis of taste—
I heard a fly buzz—then held fast—
My soul—some part—erased!
Walt Whitman Addresses a Limited Edition Bacon Buttermilk Pancake English Muffin:
In the fitful silence of the campfire, we two, old comarado of the toaster,
Brawny, synthetic, rough in fiber and in breath,
Are we unpalatable? So let us be unpalatable,
Rangy, invented as the nation is invented,
Ever changing, mutable, casting our barbaric taste upon the roads
For those among us brave enough to follow,
Toast, muffin, additives eternal, never breaking,
Disintegrating, you will find me
Staring back if you but search, lusty henchman of the counter,
I wait as you wait, listening, from the future of your freezer.
I give these English Muffins three out of five stars, two of which are for daring alone. I think, however, that I shall not eat their like again.