My wife, oh! my wife,
Was taught that game of cooking
Some time early in her life.
Its just as easy
For her to cook a good meal
As it is for you to ride
In an automobile.
It seems that it’s her pride
To fix good eats,
Such as roast pork and candied sweet tatoes,
And apple pies, she can’t be beat.
I can be so mad when I walk in,
Lips all shot out,
Hanging down on my chin,
But the essence of that food
Says why be thou so rude.
Then henceforth and forever
May thy grin.
If you can keep from smiling
When my wife makes apple pies,
That’s more than I can do.
She only makes that kind
That melts on the tongue
And passes by the thorax so easy,
Till it makes the pallet hum.
Telling the epiglottis
That it don’t have to move
Cause in this pie am plenty lard
And sure am short and smooth.
My Adam’s apple never works
When I go to swallow;
All the muscles in my neck
Never touch my collar.
Then it reaches the bottom of my heart
And sounds the tune of joy
And kills that word O’ Hunger
When I’m penniless so often annoys.
Now if you can keep from smiling
When my wife makes apple pies
That’s more than I can do.