he says, she says

It'll be eggs and toast,
I say as host,
she says toast and eggs,
with those skinny legs,
it's plain to see
that we disagee,
she says it's oak
I laugh as if a joke,
it's yoke, with a y, I reply,
now don't you cry,
as it runs out of the egg,
someday I'll have to tell you why,
of this poetry we do try...