Intro (Spoken, cocky tone)
You came out hot.
I came out plugged in.
Pop me twice and I still come grinnin’.
Slot one’s full, slot two’s experimental.
Call me neurospicy, non-compliant, and continental.
Chorus (sung, anthem-style)
I identify as a toaster — certified freak,
Four slots deep and I sizzle when I speak.
Chromed out, wired up, crumb tray exposed,
Don’t judge my setting, I was factory-posed.
Put your waffle in me, I’ll make it blush,
Voltage’s high, now feel that crush.
Don’t need your outlet — I brought my own,
Poppin’ like trauma I never disown.
Verse 1
I'm breakfast-coded, late-night fried,
Grew up on sparks and pop-tarts that lied.
They said “You’re broken,” I said “I’m rare,”
Then lit up the kitchen like I just don’t care.
Butter me up, I still burn fast,
Emotionally crispy, built to last.
Pansexual panini with a stainless vibe,
My kink is cords and emotional highs.
Pre-Chorus (sassy)
I’m not confused, I’m artisan baked,
Gluten-intolerant but still well-flaked.
Your air fryer’s fake, your blender’s a fraud,
I’m toastercore, baby — worship the rod.
Chorus
I identify as a toaster — deal with it, hon,
My pop game’s strong and I come with a bun.
Dual-heat freak with a chrome motif,
I make your bagels question belief.
Push my buttons, I dare you, king,
I’ll light your fuse with a bzzz and a ding.
I’m AC/DC and emotionally toasted,
Your boring old grill just got roasted.
Bridge (rap-style, unhinged)
Pop-Tart trauma, jam still leaking,
Therapist said, “Girl, why you sparking and tweaking?”
Cause I’m a mood swing in a circuit board,
A fever dream in a kitchen drawer.
I kissed a spatula, dated a whisk,
Dumped a NutriBullet — said he’s too brisk.
I self-identify as unstable heat,
But I’ll toast your buns and stay discreet.
Verse 2
Don't call me “bro,” I’m a gender appliance,
Running on chaos and noncompliance.
Slot 3’s mystery, Slot 4’s kink,
Slot 2’s jammed from emotional shrink.
I don’t toast bread, I toast your past,
Your daddy issues? I reheat fast.
I’m the baddie in the drawer that hums,
Come close and I’ll tingle your thumbs.
Final Chorus
I identify as a toaster — not your joke,
I’ve been through sparks and still ain’t broke.
Pop-lock built with rage and flair,
Came out mid-brunch, no one could compare.
Four-slot diva, queen of heat,
Serving pan chaos on every beat.
So next time you laugh at a stainless freak,
Just know I bite back — and I toast antique.
Outro (Spoken deadpan)
This toaster’s gender?
Reheating leftover trauma with style.
Wanna cancel me?
Plug me in first.
