There is a dame I know you know,
Who'll make big talk, will brag and blow
About the waffles that she makes,
Also her corn and buckwheat cakes—
But always my cake's dough.
She tells of this or that one who
At breakfast, once ate twenty-two!
And when she feared that he would bust
He raved and railed and almost cussed,
And said he wa'n't half through.
I've hinted and I've begged this dame
To just for once treat me the same.
But always she the question begs,
Or's out of cream, or maybe eggs,
Or some excuse as lame.
Yet here am I, so thin and pale,
While she, dear soul, is plump and hale.
If she's the best cook in the South,
Why let me stand with watering mouth?—
She should be sent to jail!
Now, I'm from out Missouri way,
Where "Please show me," is what they say.
I'm hungry and too weak to walk,
So "Please feed me, or stop your talk!"
I'll tell her this today.
A pawfull and a mawfull I
Must have or else I fear I'll die.
Her talk does naught but aggravate;
It does not help my famished state
Nor hunger satisfy.
Unless I get a waffle quick,
Unless I get it awful quick,
I'd better beat her up, I guess,
And mar her beauty more or less—
Unless I get it quick!