One Egg

It's hardly enough for breakfast. It isn't enough when you bake.
It isn't sufficient to a make meringue, or cookies, or even cake.
It doesn't go far in a salad, though you devil it, slice it or chop it.
But it covers the floor from wall to wall if ever you should drop it.

Unknown

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
     And never as people do now;
Did he note the account of the calorie count.
     He ate it because it was chow.
He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat,
     Devouring a stew or a pie
To think it was lacking in granular fat,
       Or a couple of vitamins shy;
He cheerfully chewed every species of food,
     Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
     By some fancy dessert,
And he lived over nine hundred years.

Rex Hrusoff