I Knew He Was a Weirdo by the Way He Eats His Toast

I Knew He Was a Weirdo by the Way He Eats His Toast

In the quiet dawn, he stands, a mystery at the table,

His toast arrives, and it’s not quite stable.

While others spread butter, or perhaps a jam,

He piles on pickles, or a slice of ham.

He munches away, with a twinkle and cheer,

While we watch, bewildered, and maybe a bit weird.

The way he crunches, the combinations he boasts,

I knew he was weird, by the way he eats his toast.

We laugh as his quirks come to light,

A little bit gormless, and yet, pure delight.

In every bite, there’s a tale that’s told,

Of a man who’s weird, in the morning’s glow.

So here’s to the odd, the wonderfully strange,

In his ways, there’s still room for change.

For in the humor and quirks that we host,

We celebrate him, by the way he eats his toast.