Pardon me fair Pork Pony patrons while I take a bite of this delicious crumpet. Ah. A doughy cloud of satisfying bliss it is!
You say Thomas' English Muffin? I say, "Nay!" English muffins are naught but a two-cent trollop at the regal ball that is the breakfast table. Thomas, the heretic! That foul man and his family should be publicly humiliated in the stocks for their sullying of my favorite traditional breakfast treat. Commercials gloating about the nooks and crannies. I ask thee, Thomas, hast thou touched tongue to crumpet?
But of course you have! You attempted to steal its very essence, that which breaths life into the crumpet. But hast thou succeeded? NAY!
You only have the crumpet's husk. Its soul still lives in every crumpet lover. You, of course, are no crumpet lover. You're just a poor old crumpet coveter.
Back off, man! Do not covet my favorite food of grain. Go back to your factories and filthy toaster ovens and eat of your own evil wheat.
Oh yes dear reader, as I partake of my crumpet, I hum my own tune: The March of Gimble. It shall soon be made available to your ears. The recording engineers continually complain of the problems they've been having putting the song together. I'm starting to further suspect them of shenanigans.
Alas, I'll master it myself if I must. The legacy of Gimble shall carry on!