A lone bun sits up on high,
Nose to the wind to smell,
Long has the moon gone to die,
Back to forgotten times to dwell.
In warming rays across the land,
A sight soon to behold,
Of ragged leaves clutched in hand,
Legendary taste that was foretold.
Ears poised and moving fast,
For the signs of the approaching meal,
Joyful hunger for noms unsurpassed,
The constant squeak of barrow wheel.
She shall wait upon her perch,
For time shall come to all,
A fruitful end will be to her search,
A hooman comes, standing tall.
Is it here? Can it be?
She stretches to her height,
Her eyes gaze in hope to see,
The best of all the sights.
The stranger comes, the bun sighs,
It’s time for breakfast at 10!
Oh no, I tell a lie,
It’s that smelly woman again.
