Burning the toast

When morning broke my eyelids were still glued, a day as ordinary as a McDonald's burger I thought, having no great expectation for it. I groped around in the half light cursing, unable to find a wayward sock. That dammed imp that hides things away, we all have one in our homes.
You put a vital something down, turn your back and Hey Presto its gone. I walk into the kitchen with only one sock on inside my slippers, and just to lighten the mood I turn on the radio, The DJ's playing 70's pop, I hum along, but in my head know all the words.  
Fantastic I think, that guy will still be playing that a hundred years from now . David Bowie performing Life on Mars how droll I muse, as the toast starts to smoke, is that what mars smells like; burned toast. I start to sing "there's a Starman smelling of burned toast, he'd like to come and meet you but your just to self-engrossed "  still humming I continue buttering the slightly burned toast.
As I look through the window pane, as I crunched the toast thinking what a sad loss to the world not my sock you fool! but David Bowie, but then on reflection was he taken by the imp  
and hidden never to return. As I peered into the garden one of the gnomes in the rockery smiling gave me a wink. I look down, the profile in the bitten toast was likeness of David returned like a ghost