My Mother's Cake
My poor mother, it’d taken her all day to bake.
Her own marzipan she had made,
And there was me, striking a morning raid.
Little fingers buried deep in the fruit
All I could think about was the edible loot.
I took so much I couldn’t eat it all,
For my brother I did call.
He helped to eat what I couldn’t conceal
We pigged ourselves on the fruit and mixed peel.
Mother’s horror at first blamed mice
Took one look at her sons and thought twice
My brother – he had the edge on me
He was older, but I was too young to foresee.
Being smart, he’d used toothpaste
I just stood there with an innocent face.
Our mouths were inspected inside.
My poor mother, she could have cried
I was caught red handed
Boy, did I cry when the slipper landed.
Dad’s slipper chased me up to bed
Where I was to go hungry and not to be fed.
In my bed I wept and lay
Whilst my brother went out to play
Looking back at this day we all smile
It’s been a few years since – quite a while
I’m a qualified chef now, and know how to bake
But nothing beats my mother’s cake.