Tuesday, 6 October 2009


The following poem harks back to the days before cholesterol and salmonella.


I was a boy in Wales
when they gave me eggs
with Lions Rampant
on the shells.

Those eggs came down
on the freight at night
from somewhere to the north
of the Snowdon range. In England
it was.

White as doves unblemished
and almost as fresh as mountain air
they were -
Better buy a dozen dear!

Mum boiled them to eat
with Mother's Pride
bread and a mash
of Indian tea.

Now that was a meal
to start the day.

Tapped the tops with the teaspoons
or sliced them
with the knives
and ate them slowly with heaps of salt.

On Sundays they were fried and
served with bacon
and slices of bread
from the bacon greased.

And fresh they were too,
until the local farmer
spilled his beans: Eggs is eggs. But these eggs
is 3 days older
than was the case
when they was laid unstamped
and sold right here.

A Lion has pride.
A Lion can't lie.
I've always eaten eggs.
I'll eat them till I die.

gw 2009

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