My mother was a single parent
Who worked her fingers to the bone.
She worked long hours morn 'til eve
Then dragged her weary body home.
She fed me every morn before she left
A soft-boiled egg with toast and jam.
I wasn't really hungry, a little thing was I,
I'd've been content with just the toast and jam.
Every morning once she left for work,
I'd run across the kitchen floor
And throw those eggs right o'er the fence
In to the yard next door.
Then one day the neighbour happened by
And chatted to my mother.
In her hands she held five eggs,
A dreadful sight for poor dear mother.
My mother pulled her hair out,
She wrung her hands and begged,
"What WILL you eat, my child?!"
"Well, not those runny soft-boiled eggs." I said.
c ELR 2013