Line up to worship at the butter dish Give us greasy palms And the sacred toast To see us through the fires of the stove That summons the morning aromas To coax the others from their slumber.

Sacrifice us atop the shrine of the cafetière And wash our bodies with coffee dregs Lest we pass to the other side Smelling of weak tea And looking like a used bag Steeped too many times.

Ascend us to the top shelf With the biscuits and the cakes And reward us for our faith Bless our tongues with cocoa And cinnamon icing Lest we forget the sweetness of life.

Memorialise us in the grease marks In the hardened jam That spells of yesterday And the careless scrapes Of our knives Across our breakfast.