C’s for cake that upon a plate sits,
R’s for residue resembling zits,
U is for unctuousness of oily substrate,
M is for morsel, like the one that I just ate,
B is for baked fours; though they’re petit, I want some more!

Thirty-three tons I’d love to score,
though off my seat I’d never soar.

Crumbs are leavings that I love to chew;
crumbs remain when the whole cake is through.
Crumbs are millimeters in size and could not be sweeter—
crumbs are not desired by you.

C’s for cooking that gets me enthused,
R’s for raisin-sized ones that I choose,
U’s for under table, I find ’em when able
M’s for much adored, even eaten off the floor
B’s for Bundt, which flakes and makes a devastating haul. . .
eat it and I’m never sore.

Crumbs are always such good news;
with them I don’t get the blues.
I can eat more than a few—
lick ’em off my apparel.

Crumbs that settle on my chest:
I make them mini morsels.
Have a field day after toast.
Crumbs that scatter ’round the room
I suck up like a vacuum,
then I start searching anew.

Look! I think I found a slew
that come from a dropped kugel
or perhaps a stomped strudel.
In any case, it’s a boon.

Crumb are scarfed up way too soon.