Eating poetry

In Competition No. 2895 you were invited to submit a poem describing a meal with a well-known poet. Sylvia Fairley tucked, somewhat reluctantly, into albatross with Coleridge, D.A. Prince shared cocoa with Wendy Cope and Rob Stuart enjoyed a curry with Dante. Well done, all: it was a top-notch entry. The winners take £25. Frank McDonald nabs £30.
 

‘How do you like your eggs?’ the waiter says
And with a smile Elizabeth replies:
‘How do I like them? Let me count the ways:
I like them scrambled, sometimes served with fries;
Or smiling at me like a golden sun
Inviting me to spill delicious yolk;
Or boiled hard as when in Easter fun
I used to roll them, like religious folk.’
I touch her hand and say: ‘Let’s take them fried.’
And with a gentle giggle she agrees.
The waiter stands and watches, mystified,
As though she had been speaking Portuguese.
She turns and says, as he regards her, frowning,
‘We’ll have some toast — with just a hint of browning.