Mutterings of a Frying Pan on a Saturday Morning

It was the butter on my forehead
That I couldn’t quite get sorted.
Must I really be this oiled?
Must your sausage be so soiled?
You leer upon me, looking smug,
Sipping at your giant mug
Of coffee stirred with whipping cream–
Must I watch? This is obscene!
All bubbling eggs and dripping grease
Say, do you know the word ‘obese’?
Why don’t you fill me up with lard
And really show me your regard?
It seems unfair that I must sizzle
Underneath your bacon drizzle—
Sugared in molasses prior
To its journey to the fryer.
I have no choice, I cannot fly–
Unless you toss me towards the sky
Or throw me at that lout you date
Instead of a more break’ble plate.