Poems
When the microwave burns my Hot Pocket,
I find this to be my consultation:
I normal-ly whine and cry about it,
And then stomp on the empty box a ton.
It�s not the Hot Pocket�s fault it was burned �
It�s that devious microwave of mine!
And almost daily I find myself spurned
By blackened food from settings put too high.
I should really return it to the store,
�Cept I don�t have the receipt anymo�.
Some day I�ll toss it out the window, for
Nothing�s worse than a blown-up potato.
But when I see my food�s perfectly thawed,
I feel obliged to stand back and applaud.
