The Puffin

The salty breeze blew
On Iceland’s south coast
As puffins ate meals
Of herring on toast.

But Gunnar disliked
All foods with a stench
He craved something better
He craved something French.

He grabbed eggs and spices
And syrup to boast
The pan sizzled loudly
With tasty French toast

The fat loaf of challah
With cinnamon powder
Smelled ten times better
Than thick herring chowder.

The birds flew right towards
The sweet smell of maple
And munched on the toast
Their new breakfast staple

So on the south coast
Where cold makes you toughen
You’ll find lofty cliffs
And carb-loading puffins

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