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Poem

There once was a sandwich, quite absurd,
who dreamed of speaking every word.
One morning crisp, it woke and cried,
“Oi! Who nicked my clock?” it sighed.

The chef just blinked, his whiskers twitching,
“Your clock? You mean your lettuce stitching?”
“No, no,” said Rye, “I’m telling you,
I’m late for lunch—I’ve got no clue!”

Tomato blushed and mayo sighed,
“Late for lunch? That’s tongue-tied pride.”
Pickles snorted, “Time to confess,
you’re just hungry—nothing less!”

The sandwich paused, then wryly said,
“I’m not just food—I’ve got a head.
A ticking tummy, rumbling loud,
and hunger’s king beneath my cloud.”

The chef just laughed, “You’re quite the jest,
a talking snack with time-obsessed!
But here’s a thought to fix your plight:
Eat you quick—you’ll be alright.”

The sandwich grinned, a cheeky bite,
“Eat me fast? Now that’s polite!
For clocks and snacks and lunchtime fuss,
nothing beats a nibble—trust!”

Lettuce leaned in, all crisp and cool,
“Don’t let your tummy be the fool.
Time’s not real, it’s just a trick,
a clever prank, a magic flick.”

Tomato winked, “So here’s the truth:
Life’s best served fresh, in prime youth.
Don’t watch the clock, just take a seat—
and eat your lunch before it’s beat.”

So if your sandwich starts to chatter,
and frets about the ticking matter,
don’t worry, friend, just laugh and munch—
sometimes even sandwiches crunch.

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