In the morning, I wake up bleary eyed and cotton mouthed. To the kitchen with me, for breakfast a plenty. Oh, to hear the sweet crackling of a corn flakes bag again, enliven the soul of a corpse. Oh wait, I have tipped the box but for nothing to come out. I decide to violently unsettle the box before I dare to peer inside at the core. For I fear the turning of an empty stomach, angry at lack of golden cereal. But nothing falls from the box after a hardy shake worthy of a Danish prostitute. So, with painful care, I turn my sight to the contents.
WOE IS ME! The morning flakes are all gone. Perhaps consumed by housemate, or a wild rat living in my filth. I shall never know or do I care to know. But off to the shop I shall go, this early morning in the summer for a replacement box of cereal. And may a foul plague betide the shop should they be out of stock.