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George Burnett Devine, mother, in English Clear filters

DreamyGeorge Burnett Devine

Lickin's

When your thoughts turn gently backwards To them days of long ago, Don't forget them good old lickin's When our Ma's would mix the dough. We were only little puppies And be snoozin' in the hay; And we'd get a sniff of cookin' "Oh, boy! It's bakin' day!" We'd do a bit o' grumblin' While totin' in the coal; But we wasn't sayin' nothin' When we'd get the mixin' bowl. It might be lemon custard, Or maybe choc'lit cake; But them surely were the lickin's Our Ma's knowed how to make.
CheerfulGeorge Burnett Devine

Hey, Ma!

There's a most perplexin' question 'Causin' boys so much dismay, Just what becomes of everything Their Ma's have put away. Remember gang, when we was kids, We couldn't find a thing? And how our marbles disappeared, As well as top and string? Our ketchin' glove was missin' And so was ball and bat; The fish hooks simply wasn't there, Nor was our cowboy hat. "Hey, Ma!" we'd holler, "Where's my knife? I had it only yesterday!" And Ma would say she didn't know, She'd put the thing away.
CheerfulGeorge Burnett Devine

Pass the Taters

While sitting at the table, pal, When you was just a kid, Remember how your pop would say: "You can't cook like mother did!" My gosh! We'd nearly drop our knife! What the heck's got into pop? Why, these here eats are simply great, From steaming spuds to juicy chop. You'd listen with your mouth ajar As Pop would tell the tale, Of how his mother used to cook The tender chicken, goose and quail. You'd turn your eyes upon your Mom, Whose eats you always did adore; She never seemed to be impressed, She'd often heard that tale before.

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