There are things we'll not remember,
And much will be forgot,

As in the bleak December
When our coffee was not hot;

When the butter was much younger,
When the bread was sour and dry;

When are felt the pangs of hunger,
With regrets and many a sigh.

How the memory used to vex us
As 'twould o'er our senses steal;

How we wished they might "annex" us,
So we'd get one good square meal.

Other things may be forgot
In this busy, hustling age,

But one thing we ne'er can blot
From off our memory's page,

That we never can forget
In a hundred months of Junes;

It will long our memories fret—
Those prunes—those rotten, wormy prunes.