How strange the silent pint of milk,
Which favours shivering in solitary;
Enjoying its own, rather limited company
To taking afternoon tea with one such as me.
How odd the sacrificial slice of bread,
Which prefers to martyr itself
Like Joan of Arc, in my tender hands;
Than partake of my hospitality.
How bizarre the salmon upon my plate,
Which stares at me so greedily; yet with not
A single sound of gratitude does it thank me;
For what it is about to receive.