A/N: I'm not sure if this is even good enough to go here. D: But, whatever. It has no rythem, it has no rhyme. I'll just put it up for a good time.

Those Who Make Toasters

Toast is the dark face of bread,

The side, which is looked upon with dread,

By those who fear for the worst

Those who like plain, un-toasted bread.

Whether covered in butter or plain,

With marmalade, jam, or cheese,

Toast is a great crispy snack,

Or a very good breakfast food.

Toast is made with a toaster,

And what a device it is.

In goes the bread,

Out comes the toast!

One can only wonder what goes on in there.

Are there fairies that darken the bread with paint?

Do tiny little robots cook the toast?

Or do miniature hippos supervise the whole process,

While wires burn lines to the bread?

What really happens in those slots,

Is unknown to most,

Except the people,

Who make the toasters.