The true meaning of Easter

Standing on tiptoe and stretching their legs,
They’d build up their towers of lush chocolate eggs.
With faces transformed by great smiles of delight,
They measured success, not in numbers, but height.
With Aero and Bountie and Crunchie and Flake,
They’d go for the spindliest tower they could make
And squeal in alarm as it started to sway,
Unstable through adding that last Milky Way.

And I’m sure, deep inside, they were fleetingly sad
‘Bout the single, dark choc’latey egg that I had,
Which I kept by my chair in the usual place,
Resisting the urge to start stuffing my face.

But while the twin towers were razed to the ground,
My solit’ry egg was intact and still sound,
And when their last eggs had been eaten with haste,
I’d smile at my hungry and slender-toned waist
And reach for my egg in my ponderous way,
While the others looked on with an air of dismay.
And I’d break off small pieces and moan with delight
At each languid and luscious and succulent bite.

One year, they removed all my choc’late, I’m told,
Replacing the wrapper back into the mould,
And when I reached down for my moment in time,
They laughed till they cried at their terrible crime.

Those eggs, so unhealthy and way over-priced,
Prove Easter is centred round chocolate, not Christ.