First, take several rashers of bacon and make
yourself a sandwich to be going on with.
Now extract your egg three times from an
organic egg box. Walk around the egg until
you have its measure. Charm it with graceful
poses. Let it see that you are not a chef
to be taken in by eggy posturing. Make that
egg your bitch. Grasp it in one hand, and with
a swift and mildly obscene motion, derange it
into a trembling, fearful, lightly-whisked
shamble of syncopation. Frown. Comfort it
with foolish promises and unbearable longing.
Now light the dynamite.
I have often found a spatula very useful
for scraping egg from the ceiling.
Comments
Ewan | July 25, 2009 - 06:34
This is the second best poem I have never read. I never read ´Poem´either. That was the best poem I have never read. ´Bride of Christ´? I bet you look lovely in your wimple!
Skunk | July 25, 2009 - 06:40
I have a good recipe for wimples too. Wasn't he Popeye's friend?
FTSE100 | July 25, 2009 - 07:04
A truly brilliant poem. I'd write it myself if I had the time.
Crackersville | July 25, 2009 - 07:08
Sorry Skunk, have to take this at face value, it's very good. Sorry Ewan, I had no other option but to use your words. Sorry Chuck-EL, for knowing your time traveling adventures in the Sonoran desert. Sorry Baron of Fajitas, for not knowing your grandpa was your mother.
FTSE100 | July 25, 2009 - 07:14
Whose face, and what is its value? Jesus Christ was a fisher of men. We would all do well to bear that in mind.
threeleafshamrock | July 25, 2009 - 10:05
Eggcelent, if uneggciting an a little overeggotistical; beaten not stirred please!
Crackersville | July 25, 2009 - 10:09
I do well to bear all the good things in mind, in order to make Santa bring my baby back to me, so long as there has been no sex change surgery since the last time I saw her, 11 minutes ago.