Some eggs may be scrambled.

And some eggs may be fried.

But with you my friend I’ve rambled,

Through lifetimes side by side.

The smaller smiler smiled.

The ergot testified.

The bitter briar burning,

The witches’ brooms implied.

I spanked a sphincter,

In the storms of winter.

A wooden splinter.

Was last to enter.

A burning ember,

Of late November.

Did I remember?

Did I remember?

The ember was the splinter,

Lit to flame to spell the storm.

The storm was of no gender,

It’s shame from being born.