She Works Hard For The Money

If I was an egg, I'd be an egg with delusions of grandeur. I would sip champagne and favour diamonds. If eggs were to possess mouths and ears, respectively. My mother would be a seasoned explorer, freely roaming the wildest of terrain. The other eggs would describe me as haughty or snobby. Vulgar beasts. Retire alongside a slick sausage or lardaceous bacon I would not. Only the likes of hollandaise or delicately wilted spinach would be worthy of my attentions. In the case of being boiled alive, the anticipation before making the initial incision would prove too much for my lucky pursuant. My firm exterior and runny centre would charm and delight. If I was an egg, I wouldn't live in Germany. My death would be in vain. My supposed runny parts would be firm, the firm parts runny. The brave soldiers sent in to save me would recoil in horror. My pitiful remains tossed aside with distaste. My life would not be commemorated with a moment of silence, or even a synthetic wreath. They would try their best to forget.