I can't help it if I'm the crust of the bread,
Some don't like me, they choose the white part instead.
I am the outer layer who took the heat,
So the rest could be cooked slowly, soft to eat.
Why do people tear me off, or gnaw their way around,
Leaving me for the garbage heap or thrown upon the ground?
Is being brown so terrible, or crusty, or chewy?
I'm where the flavor is, not all air and gooey.
They call me just a heel, to be trodden underfoot;
My redeeming qualities tend to be overlooked.
Can't you tell that I'm more than just a crusty shell?
Woe is me, please hear my plea,
Eat me for lunch as well

Written in 1993 when she came home after a week of me home alone.