I love croutons, I really really do.
I like them in soup, and I like them in stew.
I like it when they strike my palate
after having been sprinkled upon a salad.
But croutons, I’m told, have bad carbohydrates
Which, when ingested, tend to migrate
to stomachs and hips and locations like that
that are excellent places for one to store fat.
It’s the butter they’re brushed with, or sometimes oiled
that with calories heavy the experience is spoiled.
And so when I gaze upon them from afar
as I saunter forlornly past a salad bar,
I think how cruel, how ironic, how sad!
That croutons spoil the good by being so bad.
I composed this poem to express my doutes on
that damn dimunitive, the deceptive crouton.