A Nostalgic Ode to the Humble Egg:

Upon a porcelain throne, the egg does sit,

A simple ovoid, yet a world within it.

A breakfast ritual, a morning delight,

Its humble shell, both smooth and bright.

Cracked with care, a golden treasure unfolds,

As sunlight dances, its radiance upholds.

In the sizzling pan, the melody starts,

The aroma of love, a work of art.

Scrambled, poached, or fried just right,

A bite of fluff, a texture so light.

A sprinkle of salt, a twist of pepper,

A flavor so pure, we can't help but remember.

Eggs, oh eggs, our childhood treat,

A simple pleasure, a memory sweet.

In every bite, a story's found,

Of mornings spent on familiar ground.

With each forkful, we journey back,

To a time when snacks were simple, not abstract.

Eggs, our muse, our tasty friend,

A culinary poem, that knows no end.