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Slow Food

I'm beginning to be hungry
The hour is growing late;
Today I ordered breakfast
On a tectonic plate.

The table top is bare
Except for pepper and for salt;
The day will not be perfect
If I fail to find a fault.

Based on a rate of movement
Of two feet per thousand years,
It could be quite some time
Before my egg on toast appears.

The force that brings my sausages
Once made the Golden Gate;
Today I ordered breakfast
On a tectonic plate.

Each day I check my teacup
For tsunamis, which would prove
That somewhere across the restaurant
My toast is on the move.

Floating in on molten magma,
"Plate's still hot, dear, mind your hand";
The receptacle it comes on
Used to be Gondwanaland.

My meal is but a detail
Where there's mountains to create;
Today I ordered breakfast
On a tectonic plate.

There are some who like fast food,
But fast food's not my kind of thing;
I may be here a million years;
I'm not in Burger King.

There'll be toast; it will be golden
And two eggs, both lightly fried;
I'll be just a little hungry
When my meal and I collide.

I'll entrust my beans and bacon
To geology and fate;
Today I ordered breakfast
On a tectonic plate.