My mother's kinder chubby—she's fat, th' fellers
say—
My mother's kinder chubby, but I like her that a-way!
'Cause she's awful sorter jolly, an' she makes th'
bestest pies,
An' she laughs when I'm a-jokin' 'till th' tears are in
her eyes.
An' she pats me on th' shoulder when I'm feelin'
sad an' blue,
An' whispers, "Little feller, yer mother's proud o'
you!"

She don't wear silks 'at rustle, like Tommie's mother
does,
But I like her gingham better 'cause it's—well, just
'cause it's hers!
An' she don't look young an' girl-like, an' her hands
are sorter red,
But, my, they're awful gentle when she tucks you
inter bed....
She hasn't got a di'mond like th' lady crost th' street,
But she's got two great big dimples, an' her smile is
mighty sweet!

My mother's sorter chubby—but say, her step is
light—
She's never cross 'r tired—not even when it's night!
An' her shoulders JUST as comfy when yer heart is
feelin' sore,
When you wish you was a baby—an' not a boy no
more—
Oh, her arms are cushion tender at th' twilight time
o' day,
Yes—my mother's sorter chubby—But I like her that
a-way!