I think I shall become the host
of a place called "Mostly Toast".
It will offer many things: dreams and hopes and flowers filled with joyful scents,
Cures for loneliness and wrinkles, and repairs for garments with jagged rents,
but mostly toast.
I will cater dinner parties,
and people will say, "Is there roast?"
And I will say, "Yes, but mostly toast".
Someone might ask me, "What do you do?"
And I'll say, "I'm the host of 'Mostly Toast'. What about you?"
People need so much sometimes,
Dragging me from pillar to post,
and I have found I cannot always give them what they want,
but I can always offer toast.
It makes them happy,
And it doesn't cost
As much as time, or patience, or repairing what they've lost.
And you can top toast with so much:
The jam, or the butter, or the cheese,
Will ease the pain for a while,
And you can say, "Would you like more toast?"
And they will say, "Yes, please!"
Their sorrows dissolve beneath the crunchy-soft bread,
As they chew over a slight, a snub, a feeling of dread.
Whatever's hurting the most,
is gently healed, for a while, by toast.
I won't advertise, it's too expensive,
And I need all the bread I can get, of course,
mostly for toast.
And I won't be open all the time,
But once in a while, if someone really needs it,
I might stay late, and for a while, sit
and listen to them as they talk and eat,
and maybe they'll say, "Thank you for being here."
And I'll say, "I didn't do much, I'm just the host.
To be perfectly honest, it was mostly the toast".