In Defense of the Egg!

Defending the Farmyard Egg

You might think anything as quietly useful and unassuming as a chicken's egg, would escape the vitriolic pens of wordsmiths and minor poets, whom ought, in my humble opinion, hasten off, have a wank, and find something with more meat on it, ahem, to write about.

So imaging my surprise on accidentally finding poem after poem about farmyard eggs on the bloomin‘ Internet! As well as verse on lesser ovules belonging to the wild birds.

The verse that stuck in my mind, but not the poet, was one that contained the line, "Nature should beg forgiveness for the (shape of) egg." And he raved on about it having no features not brains and intelligence....what an idiot!!

I thought about this for a moment. I mean, doesn't an egg have one of the most skilful and robust designs found in the natural world? There it sits, under mum if it's lucky, for about three weeks, constantly being turned and beaked about until another marvel: the chick, uses its special tooth on the unformed beak to break out.

And we are blessed by domesticated fowls who lay one of these little containers of protein each and every day: until, in gratitude, we cut mom's head off and make her into chicken pies.

Yes, mankind has a lot to answer for when he's queuing outside the heavenly door, not the least of why he treated the poor defenceless chicken in such a callous manner.

But, hey! I like a nice plump breast as much as the next man, (especially after a good feed of chicken and a sturdy red!). No, but you know what I mean.

I rather admire the Indian way of thanking the spirit of the animal he has to consume. In the hope it helps his case at the portals of paradise perhaps. Hypocritical maybe, but at least the Red Man used to show some appreciation for the life he was ending. Not the rest of us, we treat the chicken and its eggs as something god-given for our gastronomic pleasure. But when bloody poets are having a go at the poor sods, that really gets my ire, so I go for my gun....Whoa there. No, I am a bit more civilized that that.

But I do whip out my quill and, by Jiminy, I blow 'em out of the literary water!

Here’s what I wrote, tongue in cheek, in defence of all the birds eggs some time ago, aglow with ire from the nonsense I had just read.:

The Perfect Egg

Nature, you’ve no need to beg

Forgiveness for the humble egg.

To me this inoffensive ova -

Be it chicken, duck or plover -

Is a rare example of your art;

One to charm an artist’s heart.

Of course it has not nose nor ear -

Wouldn’t one like that be queer?

But if you’re careful not to taint,

Daub some on with a splash of paint!

Neither has it voice nor wit -

To me that’s half the charm of it.

It’s not suffused with gaudy hue -

A technicolored egg we’d rue.

It always has familiar form:

Classic oval, that’s the norm.

Although brute force will crack it,

The egg can boast a sturdy jacket

Soul it hasn’t; nor yet wings -

It’s more concerned with earthly things.

As its contents change and thicken,

This modest chap becomes a chicken!

So ponder this, if you still doubt it,

Imagine breakfast time without it!

(“Charged particles” R C de M).

Many of you will have kept chickens. I have, several times and I love the poor critters which have great personalities if allowed to live and be. If there is any greater magic than feeling through the nest box straw and encountering a warm, just laid egg, then the great wizard is keeping it for himself. Here’s a small verse I wrote for a child when recalling this feeling, through the eyes of a small girl called Meg.

Chicken Delight.

Farmyard bugle; proud announcement.

I wonder what it can be for?

Kiddies running; kiddies searching

Under mothers in the straw.

What a tingle; simple pleasure.

What a grin sports little Meg.

Gently clutching, concentrating -

Ah! What joy: a new-laid egg!

(Same source as above).

Hope these are fun: trying to overcome writer’s block!