In the depths of the toaster's fiery core,
A spark of creativity was born once more,
For in the kitchen, where the bread is made,
A sonnet of sparks was crafted with flair and shade.
The toaster's coils, like dancing tongues of fire,
Sang of love and joy, in a culinary desire;
The sparks flew high, as the poem took flight,
Illuminating all, with sparkling delight.
So if you ever find yourself in the land,
Of kitchen appliances, with sparks in hand;
Just remember, in the toaster's heart of gold,
A sonnet of sparks, forever to be told.