Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Daddy D Feb 2014
******* them eggy *****,
Have you seen their eggy butts?

Gently put one in butter,
Or slam one onto another.

If the eggy **** screams
Simply flick your bean.

If you're a guy, don't forget to pat your thigh,
And sacrifice your eggy ***** to the man in the sky.

This is the story of the eggy *****,
Hide, quick, or they'll **** out your guts.
N R Whyte Mar 2014
Well let’s just jump right into it.

Everyone knows, the question right, “Which came first?” So let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, in this specific case that is, that which came first was the egg. It’s also really the end of it in this case as well because there’s no chicken to follow. Just really it’s followed with the warm lettuce and the recooked bacon, the unripe tomato on a freshly baked bagel, which for argument’s sake is really the only part of the whole she-bang that’s actually any good.

But if that’s true then why even include the egg. Why abolish the chance for a chicken to exist? Why not just get a plain bagel? Well it’s about protein, you know. Does anyone really even like eggs or do we just eat them for protein? Does anyone like them, for argument’s sake let’s call it Tim Horton’s, does anyone really like them, eggs that is, when they’re cooked at Tim Horton’s? Are they even really eggs or just that powder, you know what I mean, that eggy powder like the powder milk that they have in the military? And if it is right, that eggy powder stuff, would anyone even care? Morally I mean, you have to assume people (which people I don’t know, some people I guess) stand behind eggy powder. But others right, you know the ones, who are disgusted by the idea of eggy powder. I’m one of those, not ashamed of it either and you know what, let’s just assume that it is eggy powder that they use at Tim Horton’s in their bagel BELTs. Would I have bought it if I thought it was eggy powder, probably not but here we are and I did and for argument’s sake let’s just say I already ate the whole thing. I mean morally I’ve just saved a chicken’s life but now I’m revolted by my having just consumed powdered eggs (right that’s what they’re called).

Let’s assume also that now I feel as though I’m figuratively standing on a moral high-ground but I’m also more or less disgusted by what I’ve just eaten even though I’m proud of myself for having eaten it, or rather not eaten a genuine egg. I’m ashamed of my disgust right and this has now proliferated into a casual nexus of disgust, shame and pride.

Q: Is it better to eat the powdered egg and simultaneously feel pride and revulsion or is it better to eat a real egg and **** a potential chicken?
Karen Hamilton Jan 2016
I do love my little egg cup,
His brother much the same,
He holds my egg so perfectly;
Boiled eggs are not a game.

They bounce about for 4 minutes
Before they take their test,
They need a place to hold them straight;
My egg cups are the best.

When the soldiers are awaiting,
Those buttered friends of mine,
I need my little egg cups
To keep them all in line.

They come with little cosy hats
To hide their eggy heads,
I take it off and just like that;
Prepare for eggy bread!




© Karen L Hamilton, 2013
I love boiled eggs all year round but especially on Christmas morning following family tradition, so here's a playful poem showing my love for my little Egg cups!!
andy fardell Feb 2011
So its the weekend ...the deep end
time for chillin ...beerin and feeding our souls
room for sleeping ...wantin and needin time out

watch some footy eat me breaky and drink lots of tea
grab me hangover ...drink some oj ..eat me eggy on toast
sunday dinner ...roasty tattys and beef on the bone
Hovis ...salmon sarnies or leftovers me boast

time of argues ..family values and shoutin each out
time for reason ,time for grandpas and cousins to visit afar

So the weekend ..what a weekend
time for monday morning blues
Martin Narrod Nov 2015
if you ever want to come over and be sick and use my body like a doll-rod
I invite you to do so.
if you ever want to throw the rings and earn no points just to throw something
I invite you to do so.
if your pictures turn moldy and you can't face the mirrors, neither can I.

it's been three hundred seconds and I'm wondering if I should be listening for alphabet city or the sound of the Wilson's razor, if I should be curt or vowelless, glib and just a big sickening consonant or Occam's tired and infinite inner gesticulations- calculated but fleeting.

if you ever want to be you in front of that cemetery wall covered in the haze of eggy moonlight
I'd like to take pictures of the alms on your arms.

This earthquake is spicy and I am thrilled to feel some of the momentum coming back to my chest. I'm wishing for art too and believing in faeries and mid standing-ovation bringing my ears forward by cupping my hands, and holding ceramic mugs to the side of my head, listening for a dial tone or the tones of the dying.

you don't even know you make me write
into a black book or the white box, into the notes
onto the arms, scribbling while driving myself crazy at three-hundred and eighty seconds. Is this recording? I can turn it up.

what does it mean if I want to hang doors and patch holes, make locks and wear capes? It's been such a long lawn time, since I first got high on myself, met a new person and didn't want to drown or for them to drown.
Is this when I take the rocks out of my pockets and stop lingering by the water? Please let me know. You'll let me know, right?

If you ever want to talk serial killers over Apple Jacks or Corn Pops
I invite you to do so.
If you ever want to skip rocks or run from the cops with a second skin
I invite you to do so.

I like to dangle my feet over edges, while wearing floor-length gowns, while wearing ebony feathers, and avoiding being arrested. It's 26 minutes into tomorrow and we didn't give each other permission to die yet, so please don't go down without me. You're supposed to tell me when it's time to wear my rocks in the river, even if I never mentioned the plateau or the room where I heard the women crying.

Keep my secrets in your open-handed notebook
I invite you to do so.
Pencil new eyebrows for me to don, draw new shoes on my feet to wear
I invite you to do so.

Lock me in a box until I'm calling for the horrors, in a light-absent four-sided trap in the fetal position, I could be in a basement or on the 7 and a half floor of the Mertin-Flemmer building, but hum to me please.

I've asked you to set me on fire twice and you haven't,
does that make us best friends? I hope.
sapphires jello friendship trust fashion honesty portraits beingjohnmalkovich ringtoss seconds minutes hours pictures photos closeness occamsrazor mirrors alphabetcity elliottsmith needleinthehay needleless and obeyed OwenWilson LukeWilson tenenbaums theroyaltenenbaums footnote to a footnote wonder wander windhand invitation chicago
Ahmad Cox Jan 2012
Bedtime stories we tell ourselves
Are actually quite funny if you really think about them
They all seem a little dark in their own way
Kind of like humpty dumpty
Who is this egg and why would be sitting
On a wall in the first place
And they always show the picture of him
Sitting with a pained grimace on his face
As his eggy innards are flowing on the ground
Or even the story of old mother hubbard
We sat in her cupboard eating her curds and whey
Who actually swallows a spider when they are eating
And if they did would they really die
Sometimes I wonder about the people who write these bedtime stories
And nursery rhymes
And wonder why parents keep telling their kids these stories
That seem to make little sense
But still seem to be very popular
Maybe we are just so used to telling them
That we don't actually sit and wonder
About what they really mean
Or how ridiculous a lot of them are
Maybe I just think too much about the little things
But I can't be the only one who thinks this way
Sam Temple Feb 2016
I watched a hopping little frog
He bounced across the road
He landed upon a mossy log

My feet got wet in the smelly bog
It looked to me a warty toad
I watched a hopping little frog

I heard the barking of a dog
Casing after a ball was throwed
He landed upon a mossy log

T’was hard to see through the growing fog
I considered a shade of green unowed
I watch a hopping little frog

Just a piece of the ecosystem, a cog
Dashing across grass freshly mowed
He landed upon a mossy log

I sipped a glass of eggy nog
And thought of pictured I’d been showed
I watched a hopping little frog
He landed upon a mossy log
Kevin Aug 2018
I remember the fall
My life flashed through my mind
Years of confusion, in a second of time

I fired the King's horses
I fire the King's men
I finally managed, to climb up again

The wall is scary high
And my **** is still round
Yolk is leaking from my cracks
Running to the ground

I hope I can hang on
I know it's a gamble
But sunny side up
Is much better than scrambled
Poetic T Jun 2016
A party of fake facades, smiles etched
like lingering cyanide upon already
dead words not yet muttered in my
direction. I listened to there boorish
musings of how men are of "who cares...

Upon my glances was seen a wisp of
Ash coloured in the essence of a butterfly
I tried to heed its name, but like an ember
it baited me in wonderment of what it
was, then all had fallen leaving a cage of bone.

It fell between the shimmer of a mirror and
descended into nothingness. But alas my
crime of boredom had been captured by
eyes of screams. She had it coming looking
like I was lower now she doesn't breath.

Lingering on my demise of a white jacket,
filthy white room of a looming lobotomy.
Partly shaven head, not my locks of gold.
To sit in a room of regrets but not remembering
What was after another round of shock therapy.

Snapping out of that realm of reflection I lunged
forward, no looking back as it weaved around my
being. Lament essence radiated around me, I
was between a motion and nothingness. I was falling
to another fate of ill thought through reasoning.

As I weaved in and out what was and what is, I
was on a shelf of unproportioned size, where once
I was of stature now I was not. Last times thoughts
beckoned me forward as if some lingering force was
to give me a demise I wouldn't want in either place.

I lunged forward seeing what was again anew,
little egg needed to be taught a lesson.So with no
thought I jumped upon a steed and crushed his
shell under his hooves, breakfast is ready I told the
kings men, devouring the bludgeoned eggy once again.

Then I saw the cage anew talking of a friend feeling so
Not himself under the thoughts of the blue moon.
I thanked him and with a smile, decapitating his wings
from his form. As I knew what was about to befall myself
as walked once again through that door.

But the first step wasn't as before, I feel through the
heavens and wings were now like leafs in my palm
dripping tiny ebbs of blood. I passed the vultures
that lingered near that place many fell through, but
I was not a supper for a wonderland bird.

I landed upon crimson blossom, descending upon the
remnant pieces of who'd fallen before. My old friends
where here as if waiting to see if tragedy had  befell me
on this fall. I glanced around to see misgivings of eyes,
As rabbit stood before me?

"Rabbit how can this be,

"That's was my brother,
"Many more have fallen since last you eat
upon my brothers flesh for tea,


There standing needle marks ever visually punctured
upon her white flesh, newly dripping blood did I see.

"Fear not it is but a trickle my dear,
"I overdosed the last time we saw,
"But I was clean for a while, but it called to me,

Last but not least I felt a wet sensation between
thighs and knew of only one of this crudity,
first was eyes then a smile, but least of did
it last long at all. As foot greeted its smirk
turning it in to a ****** frown.

"What brings me to this place once again?

"Tis the hatter he has not killed a soul,
"Not stabbed or cut, concealed breath,
"He isn't as you knew him, that look
faded from his eyes,


I looked upon sorrowful faces, they need
the killer they loved to hear make others
scream. The gardens hadn't flourished since,
No blood roses feeding on those beneath.
They were wilting without his feed.

Bewilderment as I took steps towards his door,
where once jagged slashes had all but destroyed
the door, his voices were many all telling him to
****, but now I stand before a door painted in lilac
and a knocker saying "Hi I welcome you,


To Be Continued.......
neth jones May 2021
When the crime is right
      & the devil wet
             the nocturnal forrest is a skin
                     and ceremony thin dreams broach reason
            they poach me with a caustic blooded rash
approaching as nippy darts  ; visions of shard and coil
a metallic eggy rot
                           and pan to the darkness
                                                     snapping electric

        irregular from that darkness
spaces between the trees comb
                      form a hyper hectic wealth of flushes
a blush burst discharges in the body
           booming pulse
          blooming rabidly
salivating to a ******* savagery
a nature to express
       forecast
             within permeable forrest

i have energy amazed limbs
             daring a dance
                       screamin' hole The Frenzy
             dog-shaking the head
legs flung and planted
crushing ferns
             this hefty simian sway
                      a broadcast challenge
             invitation
           a power coward
commanding a matching of kinds
                       excitation
       no longer to be foetal and cowed
             an aching unmend amended
a call is placed
the spell is rendered
    
                                 - resonate
Companion to ''Spring Gland'
bea Apr 2018
i don't know how long it's been since i was thirteen years old- feels like a lifetime
maybe i am cicada child,
living 3 lives, dying too young too eggy
leaving my ridgey shell behind, hanging from a tree.
tan jacket, goes past my thighs
but i leave it wrinkled in the closet. maybe when it's summer, when bart trains switch with buses in the back of my head
and my phone is a soft playlist of names i don't recognize.
it is late but i am not sad anymore.
sometime this year the salt dissolved from my arms and the bitter coating fell away from my lungs.
i am in my second life, eating other bugs
waiting for summer
written 3.11.18 i found this in my history binder
i was in a good place here still struggling but ive moved on now i thnk. its been weird lately i wna do more growing but ive found myself in the mud so often these months
Larry Potter Dec 2016
You could be
Ginger haired
With a Pepper head
Onion-skinned
With a Garlic Breath
You'll be all the spice I need.

I don't care if you're
Foxy witted
Thinking fishy plans or
Chicken hearted with
Monkey business in your hands.
I'll tame every wild fauna that you are.

Bring on those
Cheesy lines
And Eggy praises
Cry over spilled Milk
For Butterfingered choices.
Honey, you're the sweetest pastry to me.
Steve Page Aug 2017
I met a young woman named Megan
Who's either laughing or grinning
Whenever she's near
She spreads serious cheer
And then she gets on with the mopping.

I know a young lady named Ivy
Whose kids are constantly smiley
Her calm and good grace
Pervades the tent space
From Monday to late on a Friday

I know a great lady called Abi
Who's started an interesting hobby
As well as her teaching
Cooking and singing
She now does professional cleaning

I met a dear woman named Bev
Who won't look at a Chicken Kiev
She says she prefers
To bake flap jack squares
And fry up some great eggy bread

I met a dear woman called Debbie
Whose mood is consistently peppy
She readily hugs
All her old chums
And makes new friends in a jiffy

Now Rachel is a woman of class
All you need do is ask
She'll readily help
And if nothing else
She'll be ready to fill up your glass

I met a dear lady named Gwen
She's a perfect motherly hen
She cares on instinct
Her fashion is dis-tinct
And she scored a perfect round 10

I've met a great bloke called Mark
Who's been heard to pass a remark
That despite all attempts
To live life in a tent
It's an idea that Abi has parked.
Friends helping out at a youth camp in Norfolk. Great memories.
neth jones Feb 2021
Retreating from
  weighty day of toil
I settle my slack
  on tailored sprawl of lawn
Compressed soil radiating ;
  tapped battery
  of a day's warmth
Life is raised through my cartridge
  I stretch out
  receiving reptile charge

Aimed shyly
   at the expansive dark bedding of night sky
     speckled
         pierced
     pecked at with pinholes...
each emitting brilliance
firing out fuel
  exhaust from further worlds
                less adulterated than our own

There is a correspondence
  amongst the insects in the grass
  ticking, clicks and tats
  like static amongst laundry
There's a great correspondence out there
  in the night sky

here am
   invulnerable human
    suburban and secure
   belly...

a cross draft
   from the open basement window
              invades me
eggy sulphur burping from the drains
an organic degassing from below my house

: Betrayed ! 

my feeling passes
the stars behave stagnant
       and dismissive of me
; withholding glove oblivion ;
the clouds step in
  like a quick curtain
  over some 'lewd private show'
(must I pay more
                  to see more ?)
My world is kept restrictive
; a muzzling

I bare the weight still
      of the days wetter ill
Better off indoors
        filtered
            of my own dander
and projected upon
        by a feeding screen
homework
Rintato Apr 2019
Your green skin sun-baked,
Crunchy and crispy.
Gummed rice lay over,
Sticky and mushy.
Orangey carrot sliced thin,
Fishy Fish chopped symmetrically,
Unwilling they aligned
bearing the cacophony of sticky and crispy.

Nescient avocado,
Addle-pated eggy,
joined the jarring combination.
Grudgingly they were rolled,
Trimmed into circular disk.
Melding of those was awry
Heedlessly the dish a masterpiece,
Loved by small and Big
Praised by all.

Whatever things may be,
Bad from the start,
Dont be sad for the end
For it may be different,
From what you expect.
Do enjoy it!!!
EmB Mar 2018
The resilience of yellow,
Yellow, which is so often brushed off
“eggy” they say or “oh god, not lemon”
it’s more than that.
The folds of the petal,
velvety, resilient to the world it faces.
Uprooted it may be,
but tall and proud it stands.
The arms are outstretched, perfume given away freely.
Beautiful, fragile, captivating.
T R S Nov 2019
I left a hard boiled egg, and dried chili in a pickle jar.

I had a briney, eggy, chilly pickle in my fridge for weeks.


You can't pick in a pickle jar frozen in time just to see.

It's a bullet in the eye that never had a chance to breath and see.


So, one day, maybe, if I'm brave,
I'll have the strength to eat

The flavor I fermented in a jar at the end of the world with solar heat.
(march 2020)

..day 18..

a duller day not that it mattered

i burned the waste early. grey

blue plumes fading the morning

air

seen from afar while out daily

walking

one white van came slowly

asked if i was ok



it is my daily excercise &

you are doing a grand job

taking people bread in

full makeup so pretty

and pies



later she waved again as

i walked backwards to wave

to the farmer



we talked about pies later

the shapes with crimping

the shiny eggy tops with

liitle holes in the middles

made by pixies while cooling

on the sill



i guess by the conversation

we have relaxed into this

a little



which perhaps is incorrect

in these worrying times





who is listening

— The End —