Poem Hunter
Of Late I Boiled An Egg For Him....
HB (11 April 1927 - 8 February 2004 / Durham, United Kingdom)

Of Late I Boiled An Egg For Him....

Of late I boiled an egg for him
A wifely sort of duty
And as the sands of time ran out
I pondered on its beauty
What are you egg? I asked myself
How came you to this earth?
Are you essential to our lives
Do we really know your worth?
An egg - the worlds beginning
New life within a shell
A seed, to grow in shape and form
And nature to guard it well
For every living creature
Each plant, each flower, each tree
Began like this, a tiny egg
A miracle to see
'How poor this cruel sinful world
Would be with out you, egg' I cried
Then with a deep regretful sigh
I murmur 'Yes - I'll have mine fried! '

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Comments (1)

I must say this gave me a good chuckle. Your Mother certainly had a great view of life. Sincerely Ernestine.