What’s in your plate of eggs, I asked,
besides delightful fluffy lumps?
What secrets wait to be unmasked
amid the yummy, cheesy clumps?
Read me the eggs, oh dotterel!
What ballets might the next spring bear?
He said, The Golden Cockerel
and a week of Le Corsaire.
Are these eggs like leaves of tea
and you are a tasseographer?
He said, You’ll get La Fille Mal Gardee
and a rep week by ABT's choreographer.
A whole week, I cried, I cannot take.
Too much schtick and nonsense, I fret.
Don’t worry, you’ll also see Swan Lake
and a week of Romeo and Juliet.
So far, so bad. There’s no Giselle.
What else for us with Petipaphilia?
Sleeping Beauty is what I can tell
along with Ashton’s Sylvia.
Are you sure there’s no Giselle?
Parse those eggs and examine the nexus.
Sorry, not as far as I can tell.
You’ll have to go to Houston, Texas.