Alofa bread rose out of bed
one cold and snowy morn,
put out the cat and noticed that
the flakes were made of corn.
She went outside and brushed aside
the cornflake fallen snow,
and when she did she almost slid
on white and sourdough.
She bent on down and looked around
and much to her surprise,
found little bowls of dinner rolls
with flatbread on the rise.
She brushed more snow and found matzo
with whole wheat heels and rye;
then looking up she spied a cup
of bagels passing by.
She tossed a glance at nine croissants
beyond her Persian cat,
while in the weeds were poppy seeds
and slices of zwieback.
Alofa Bread, I’ve heard it said,
after taking up the grain,
mistook her chance with loaves in France,
then moved her buns to Spain.
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