Last night my mother cooked for us a bowl of sloppy stew.
The smell was nauseating; we all went, "Yuck!" and "Pooh!"
Our comments Mom did hardly like, she blew up like a bomb.
We quickly said, "We did not mean to put your food down, Mom!"
But still she stormed; we'd never seen our mum in such a mood.
"You do not like my cooking? So, you do not like my food?"
I said, “Look Mom, I'll tell you what is wrong with this foul poison.
It just could be the rats and fleas and blowflies you put in.
And then the bowl of mustard and the jug of pepper too!
Of course, it is quite nice if you are into eating glue.”
(The last poor soul to eat this stuff, my cousin Molly Peak,
Had dreadful cramps and then her jaws stuck solid for a week.
Her skin was shrivelled up and green, and it is also said
That now they keep her on a leash and locked up in a shed).
But Mom was mad, she shrieked and hissed and yelled, “It's all a lie!"
She grabbed me fiercely by the neck and held me way up high
And let me fall into the bowl of sticky, slimy goo,
Where all my bits were instantly dissolved into the stew.
And then Mom looked upon those left and pointed with her spoon.
Her mouth it hissed and dribbled spit, thus spoke the voice of doom . . .
"In the stew, or in your tums, which is your preferr'd?"
And so they ate the stew (and me)
Without another word.
