What do poets have for breakfast? A smorgasbord of words?
An array of prepositions? A buffet of nouns and verbs?
A calorific limerick, a sonnet omelette too?
A monologue of metric verse, a yum cha of haiku?
A phrase and fable fry up at the Omnibus café?
A simple serve of synonyms, a cup of sweet cliché
A slice of complex syntax thanks, a nice semantic smoothie
Spicy morning chinwags with a metaphoric muesli
What do poets have for breakfast? Well, we never get enough
of alliterative adjectival literary stuff
We salivate for similes and savour metaphors
We relish rhyme and rhetoric and rhythm in our jaws
Devour delicious dictionaries, consume a crumpet chorus
Eat volumes of vocabulary, swallow a thesaurus
Muesli of the Muses with a grain of truth detected
Extract of ephemera, grammatically corrected
A tart of etymology, a pancake palindrome
A rarebit of anthology, a bite of microphone
When we wake up in the morning how we love to vocalise
We slam a scrambled spoken word or gorge on grammar pies
Have healthy wholemeal homage, potluck of punny verse
A treasury of triplets or an ode to oats or worse
We dine on inspiration toast with lashings of enjambment
I’d say we dine on dithyramb if I knew what dithyramb meant
The truth of what we poets love is obvious to most
and it isn’t ham and eggs, or fruit or cereal and toast
The refrain that every breakfast poet’s ego most adores
is to sate our tastes and appetites with audience applause