Your crunch oat exterior,
The soft, warm, syrup within.
The sheer bliss of your taste on my tongue
Is enough to make me grin.
Golden brown, you sit there.
A rectangular beauty on the tray
Of cold hard steel, and your alluring smell
Will keep me here all day.
I long to eat you, truly I do,
My tongue aches to smell, my lips to taste,
To leave you there, lonely and sad,
That really would be a waste.
I can't resist, I take a bite,
I fell bliss of every shade.
And, with your demise, here ends
My flapjack serenade.