All Things Egg

January 26th, 2006

Egg is king
It’s my thing
I say hello
To the white and yellow

The globe can be
Poached and scrambled
On camp mornings fried and boiled
Whilst in golden Cornish fields I amble
Spilling breakfast,
The egg is soiled.

Every Sunday at Eight
As I wake to the morn’I have dreamt of yolk falling
Into shell to be born
Fried,boiled or scrambler
Or poach if you dare
For I dreamed the egg dream
Of an albumen fair

To sculpt such a shape
I would need to be an artist
With a velvet cape
And a tendency to get pis*ed
I would live in a hovel
In bohemian Paris
Forming with a shovel, an egg
That looked more like a pig’s arris

Jazz is a hardshell
Worshipped by Coltrane
Be-bop, hard-bop, who can tell.
That secret of his; there was no refrain
From scoffing with Flood Choas,Boiled.
Not cold
From the table at his Mother’s house

“EGG!” they scream
They’re a dream
Great with haddock
Not so good with bream

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