cotton

the egg had to be broken from the top
i crossed the dirty brook into the farm where they called them eggs poute'
dad checked to see if it was a brown country egg or English machine made white

patience wore thin he fried the egg sunny side up the way only he could
as the sunlight streamed in from the Eastern window
my craft teacher asked for too much

we used a sketch pen and stuck cotton on the end of the shell
the red cone hid the broken head
it was st. Nicholas in all his glory and the room was golden bright

jingling all the way to school delicately in Dec. i got a B