A scratched and battered plate
Of unconfirmed and mysterious origin
A wretched expression
Of complete despair
And a putrid heap
Of steaming soggy eggs
Is it possible?
Can it be?
Brinner—again!
The word itself-
Almost as terrible
As the selection before me-
Sets a chill to my bones
And a cringe to my spine
Courageously, valiantly
I plunge my fork
Down into the mass
The blob
The eternally unappealing
Eggs
The fork rises
Without asking my consent
And the egg, it wibbles
It wobbles
And it falls
With a resounding splat
Down to the floor
Oh well
One less squelching, squashing, squishing
Bite
To endure