Butter

When the butter hits the heat of the crumpet
do you think it screams?
Do you think it dreams
of being back in the fridge
on the ridge
just before
the door?

I adore

the taste as it melts
through tightened belts
and honeycombed holes
Salty, naughty,
salinating our souls.

Sometimes I have it in rolls.

And when it drips

like a golden shower
its power
draws me
to mop up the bits.

Some say it’ll give me a heart attack,
knifed to the edges of a crackers crack.

Like yellow porn
on sweetcorn
or an embarrassing rash
in mash.