By S. Zainab Williams
Above the burble of a babbling bank,
Beside a river where the sun never sank,
But danced and glittered, blithe and blind
To a nattering drama of the silliest kind,
Cluck-spat argument of land versus sea.
“My egg,” crowed Hen, “is far supreme,
All speckled in red instead of cream.”
“Who cares?” pouted Fish with kissy lips.
“The cast of the egg between your hips
Is but echo of feather and fluff.”
“My eggs,” spat Fish, “are plentiful,
Of numbers great and immeas’rable.”
“Your eggs are itsy breaky things
And your paltry progeny have no wings,”
The ruffled Hen buckawed.
When out from the shade of a gnarled oak
Stepped a twisted man in a heavy cloak.
“What is this?” he queried in broken falsetto.
“Do I hear a cry for the honest libretto
Of one unbiased and true?”
“Good sir,” both entreated with harried breath,
“Would you tell us in truth, on pain of death,
Whose eggs are the best of all?
We need to know the truth at last and it must rest on your call.”
The man fell in shadow. And smiled.
“Produce your eggs. Produce them now,”
The man commanded with uplifted brow,
“I will take them aside to consider their gifts
But before I can you must persist
In laying your scrumpt–lovely jewels.”
So Hen and Fish handed over their sires
And the man sulked off with the root of their ires
To examine these specimens with boiling pot,
With herbs and mustard and thickening plot,
When Fish snuck away from Hen.
“Ho there!” whispered Fish from the muddy shore,
“Are you ever deciding, are you ever more?
Would you whisper though I have no ear?”
O’er coal and flame scraped a frying pan, said the man, “Come near.
Till the sun bent its leg,
And no more did she see that red-speckled egg.
Deviled Egg Filling: Egg Yolk (one dozen eggs), Coleman’s Mustard, Mayo, Fresh Dill, Horseradish, Salt, Freshly Ground Pepper, White Vinegar, Smoked Paprika
Garnish: Fried Salmon Skin