Birth And Death.

Why is my existence so short?

I get created in a bowl,

First with flour and butter.

Loving fingers rub through me,

Caressing me as one would

Caress the form of a loved one.

The butter and flour are as one

Together forever.

The sweetness of sultanas

Are added to enhance the rapture

Found in my being.

Then some milk enters me,

And I become one smooth body

Laid out on a board.

And gently caressed until

I am flattened and ready

Ready to be cut

Into individual bodies.

The birth of my offspring is nigh.

Into a nice warm oven

We are placed

And rise as the heat overcomes us.

At last we are fully risen

And our birth happens

As we slide onto the tray.

But almost as soon as we are born

We are killed

As a knife slices through us!

We are smeared with butter

And if lucky, jam.

Our maker then eats us.

Why cannot we scones

Live a longer life.