An Ode to Odious Eggs

Beneath the dawn, in lands of dirt,

An archaeologist takes her stand.

To dig through time, to brush the past,

Yet breakfast strikes a blow so vast.

Each morn, the same unholy sight:

The hard-boiled egg, an ungodly sight,

It mocks her dreams of ancient lore,

With sulfur scents, she can’t ignore.

Oh loathed orb of pallid dread,

Encased in white, your sulfurous head,

Betrays the promise of a wholesome start,

Instead, you tear the soul apart.

Your rubber insides, so slick, so cold,

A texture neither brave nor bold,

And that yolk—a dusty, powdery sun,

A choking plague, a cruel thang.

Her trowel waits, her satchel packed,

But first, this orb must be attacked.

A bite, a gag, a disgusted life,

The yolk turns to dust; she wonders why.

“Did Romans feast on such disdain?

Did ancient chefs embrace this bane?

Surely even Neolithic men

Would find some better breakfast then!”

No art can mask your brutal taste,

No spice can hide your glaring waste.

You sit in salads, a pungent curse,

A Trojan horse for taste-bud cries.

Her colleagues laugh, they do not see

The egg’s assault on her spirit.

“Protein’s key for work,” they claim,

While she feels trapped in yolk-born shame.

But still, she chews, her duty clear—

The past won’t wait, the dig is near.

And so, she swallows loathed rind,

While dreaming of the Morgantina grind.

Oh, someday soon, she vows with grit,

The eggs will fall—she’ll conquer it.

But ‘til that day, her curse persists,

An archaeologist, yolk-bound, resists.

The Archaeologist’s Enemy