#9 Breakfast on the Wall

A few slices of 2 day-old black bread fried up perfectly for this.

Night Dawn gathers, and now my watch breakfast begins. 

It shall not end until I eat all of my prunes. 

I shall take no jelly, hold no juice, share with no children. 

I shall wear no lap napkins and spill no coffee. 

I shall wake and eat at my table. 

I am the fork in the darkness. 

I am the chef in the kitchen. 

I am the fire that burns against the cold, 

the light that brings the dawn, 

the oven timer that wakes the sleepers, 

the potholder that guards the hands of bakers. 

I pledge my knife and butter to the Night's Watch Breakfast, 

for this Sunday morning and every fourth Sunday morning of the months to come. 

And now my meal is done.