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all things egg

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

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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.

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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
Old
From the table at his Mother's house

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"EGG!" they scream
They're a dream
Great with haddock
Not so good with bream

my eyes have been

my eyes have been
through the fires of hell
my head was
kicked about as well

I need to stop
and get some sleep
or I'll gently rock
and mutter meeeeep.

Evening train late

Evening train late
Standing in orange station
It smells of shite. Why?

october haiku

Red leaves sit heavy on tree
As morning dew shines
Calling winter back to us

hey - this is bear green...let's get typing