Least important meal of the Week

Said he, said he with repeated snuffs
Can you pass me the sugar puffs?

Fetching fetching, looking so fetching,
she fetched the cereal with an arm outstretching.

Cold and white,
sat the milk tight.

Deadly, lethargic calm surrounded,
the small table, square not rounded.

He swiped and she swiped
neither of them piped.

No paper no news,
no reading no views.

No coffee no eggs,
no tea no dregs.

Only Sunday and not every,
she no gluten, he no dairy.

Him late enough to snooze,
her early to warm running shoes

Too little too infrequent,
less often than they meant.

To be busy, to be a success,
why should breakfast be any less?


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