Breakfast

Simply a poem

My breakfast is a whole new world,
The eggs are the suns,
The new world has two,
That warm the earth,
The pancakes,
And cast a yellow glow on the ground,
That is over run by rivers,
Of which are made of crispy bacon,
Cooked last afternoon,
The hills are made of butter,
Over which it rains syrup,
And jam at night,
But of all these things,
My favorite place in the new world,
Are the mountains,
The piles upon piles of strips,
Of hash browns.
Cooked to perfection