We chatter, the smoke oozes
The sweet aroma of a golden corn;
While it laid in the red glowing ember.

Until, I heard a popping sound;
As if there's war. Like rifle guns.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Then I blow the ember stones,
And ashes flew.

I picked it up with my bare hands,
(Since there's no fork to pierce it through.)
It hurts, since it was very, very hot;
Like how we strive on for a living.

Anyways,
I gotta eat
The bitter
And burnt corn.
Cause, I have no choice.