To French culinary purveyors,
a mysterious crescent of yeast leavened dough,
an erudite pastry of buttered layers:
crusted croissant, my morning trousseau.
Scents of Earth, fresh fields and nectar,
blend sight, taste, and smell into conjecture
of the baker's art and vision bold,
while marketers see croissants a la mode.
Youthful, robust with personality generous,
baked folds between slivers of air,
aesthetic embodiment of savoir faire,
savoury buttered petit pain amorous
awaiting consumption, your role is to serve
vigorous breakfast with spiritual verve.
Your purity’s too pristine, too sexy to sustain,
diluted in affairs with interests monetary,
now painted with almond, beauty to feign
appeal to the great unwashed, adultery voluntary.
Battle hardened, no longer tender,
you seek market share like a slick vendor,
tarted up, walking the street full of any praline:
savoury put to the guillotine.
Shameless descent, cousin to the bagel,
full of chocolate, any fill will suffice.
Add ham? Feta? Or Nutella? At the right price
appeal to air breathers: culinary betrayal.
A mound of folded half rings
on tap for breakfast at Burger Kings.