It's only quiche trying to be pretentious,
sweet it may be, but only an egg pie,
but doesn't it sound strange,
to lay in bed with an egg beaten,
and a photograph of an omelet,
with the name of Quiche Lorraine.
But forget the spinach,
and give me your bacon,
with a dash of Betty Crocker,
between the sheets.
Because in reality, an egg is a chicken,
and a yoke with swollen egg white,
without rosy lips and a tongue,
or a g-string awakening to the dawn,
it's only quiche trying to be pretentious,
with the name of Quiche Lorraine.
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<a href="https://www.storiesspace.com/stories/poetry/-sweet-lorraine-.aspx"> Sweet Lorraine </a>