A Breakfast Story

A Breakfast Story

If you need a place for porridge,

Using your own pants for storage

Is not a thing I’d recommend.

How do I know? Wait for the end.

 My tale begins one rainy morn.

I woke up to the breakfast horn –

A loud device my parents use

To give their dozen kids the news

That eggs and bacon, toast and beans,

Or maybe sausages, sardines

Await their hungry mouths downstairs.

So down we scampered, pulled up chairs.

And then a sadness filled my soul

For I found porridge in my bowl.

Now, those of you who like the stuff - 

Who lap it up, can’t get enough -

I do not want to start offending.

You’ll have trouble comprehending

How much I detest the goop.

I’d rather swallow tree-bark soup

Than have that splodgy, lumpy gruel.

To make me eat it just seems cruel.

I watched my siblings down the line

Devour their helpings. They seemed fine.

But surely there were more like me,

In homes nearby or ‘cross the sea,

Who wished the stuff inside their bowl

Was stuffed way down a deep, deep hole.

I hung a note in every shop:

“To those who want an end to glop!”

On email bulletins I wrote,

“Who here won’t eat a soggy oat?

Come join me and we’ll march as one!

Down with porridge! No more! None!” 

I booked some time on radio

To let the others like me know

That we had rights! That we could say

We want this food to go away! 

 My parents still served mushy grain.

They didn’t know of my campaign

Until the postman came. Whoo-ee!

So many letters – all for me –

From kids my age throughout the land

Saying, “Time to take a stand!”

My mum and dad, they couldn’t slumber

(I had given out their number

So their phone rang, day and night,

From children set to join the fight).

A hundred kids had soon shown up

To demonstrate to each grown-up

“Hey! (Hey!) Ho! (Ho!)

Breakfast porridge has to go!”

My parents didn’t like this stunt.

A thousand kids now camped out front!

“We march at dawn!” I told the crowd.

Their cheering was extremely loud.

Porridge makers bit their nails.

What would happen to their sales?

But when they heard my interview,

Calling porridge “Yucky goo” 

And saying sugar didn’t help

And fruit and honey made me yelp,

The porridge-makers made a plan.

And in the morning, it began...

They found me just before the march,

Making signs near Marble Arch.

They praised me for my bravery,

Then said, “Have you tried...savoury?”

They held a bowl beneath my nose

And it was porridge, I suppose.

But the aroma from that slurry

Was my favourite food: a curry!

I gobbled it, and then they got

Another porridge in a pot

With miso and a runny egg,

A third pot with a chicken leg!

As I began bowl number four

My followers began to roar,

Searching high and low for me.

Oh no! I couldn’t let them see

this bowl! So to avoid their rants...

...I dumped the contents down my pants.

 Did it feel nice? It didn’t, no.

It felt uncomfortable below.

My followers started snooping,

Saw my trousers, yes, were drooping.

Then they found the porridge pot.

Boy was I now in a spot!

They figured out what I had done.

And I figured I’d better run!

The crowd was awfully mad to find

That their leader changed his mind.

“He let us down!” I heard their voices.

But I found there’s other choices!

You don’t like your porridge sweet?

There’s so much more to try and eat!

You couldn’t say it was my fault 

If no one gave me gruel with salt.

And so I say, “Don’t be so hasty!

Find a version you find tasty!” 

 Anyway, that is my story.

I gave up my chance at glory.

I lost the crowd, and home at last,

I changed my clothes and had a blast -

For savoury gruel is what was brought.

Not just food, but food for thought.

The End