In 2001, someone I knew sent me some poetry, probably in response to my exclamation of impending toast. It went as follows.

We may live without poetry, music, and art;
We may live without conscience, and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilised man cannot live without cooks.
He may live without books - what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope - what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love - what is passion but pining?
But where is the man that can live without dining?

Apparently this was written by Lord Bulwer-Lytton. Anyway, half an hour later I sent him the following in return.

Toast

I can live without friendship, or love from a wife;
I can live without thinking, or breathing, or life;
I can live without faith, without hope, or my head;
But certainly I cannot live without bread.
You may live without dough - what's its use but for kneading?
You may live without jam - what is fruit but for seeding?
You may live without butter, and spread less than most
But where would I be should I live without toast?