You never come out alone.
The oval shape of your shell
has a mind of its own.
Placed on a table,
and you run away.
Thrown against a wall,
and you splatter.
A piece of art.
Oh, egg.
Which one of your colors
is the bootleg?
I don’t wish to neg;
to beg,
at the space between
your right and left leg,
but I can’t help it,
you’re a beautifully aborted protein keg.
Breakfast! Lunch! Dinner!
I’m always well-fed.
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