Tuesday, March 27, 2007


When we see our Mom get ready,
And she says she's going to bake;
Then we know just by her actions
She is going to bake a cake.

First she gets the flour ready,
And whatever else it takes;
Then she sings a little ditty
While she's mixing up her cake.

Then she mixes all together,
Stirs until her arms do ache;
And we all keep off a distance
While Mom's mixing up her cake.

Then she sets it in the oven,
When it is prepared to bake;
Soon we sniff the rich aroma
Coming from her flavoured cake.

Then when it is baked and ready,
From the oven she will take;
And we all have such a longing
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When it is cooled off so nicely,
Then the icing she will make,
And she lays it on so even
All around her dainty cake.

When she sets the dinner table,
And we all our places take;
We are sure to leave an opening
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When she serves us all a helping,
We are very much awake;
And it pays her for her labour,
When we praise her tempting cake.

You may talk about your tid bits
That gives you the 'tummy' ache;
But there's nothing half as tasty
As a piece of Mother's cake.

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