In Praise of Scotch Eggs

I'm not averse to chicken legs
But find I still prefer scotch eggs
Although the bread crumbs are all dyed
And all the meat is grey, inside.
The egg is bouncy like a ball
And yet I do not mind at all.
In fact, at lunch I often dream
Of them, awash with salad cream.
Scotch eggs, I think I should confide,
Have, also, a mysterious side:
The average Scotch Egg's been designed
With curious properties. You'll find
No matter where you sink your teeth
To bite into the egg beneath,
Wherever you may think you bit
You'll always bite the end of it.
Held any way within your hand
Once bitten, there will be the band
Of yellow yolk, rubbery white,
A gap, the meat, then bread crumbs bright.
The gap, I think, is surely planned
For those with salad cream to hand.
Uncannily it's always right
In width and breadth and perfect height
In order to maintain with ease -
Between the egg and meaty case -
The squeezing in there of a moat
Of salad cream (on which to float
The egg inside its shell of meat)
With this the taste is made complete.
I care not for the burger bar
Scotch eggs are lovelier by far.