Marmite are you spreading
on the golden toast you're eating?
Loaves like the rings of scones, you
With your fresh jam spread for, can you?
Ah, as the toast grows older
it will come to our plates colder:
buy and buy, nor spare the rye
though loaves of sliced bread wholemeal lie;
Yet it will leap: and you know why.
Now no matter child the game:
Toasters' springs are all the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
Why bread hot was, toast I guessed:
It is the bite man was born for,
And with marmalade you yearn for.