The beater is now prone to
any affection whatsoever against
eggs. Non-existent, they may be,
but as the protein-filled,
budding objects are beaten, the beater comes
to an excellent conclusion. There is no true fatality.
There is only growth,
for whomever feast upon the recently
exterminated meal. Just when one is soon to topple
over, another rises to put a new spin on it.
A person’s mind may become scrambled, or it may just even be
deviled, one must not be so bold and boiled when
salted on as if expected not to crack
a yolk. The executionist object thinks to
itself, if someone is to stir up trouble, you must
do it right, or
left, either way this tale was thwarted, and while
consuming these thoughts, even the
eggs felt its feelings were
a treat.