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.