Grandmother says when I pass her the cake:
‘Just half of that, please.’
If I serve her the tenderest portion of steak:
‘Just half of that, please.’
And be the dessert a rice pudding or pie,
As I pass Grandma’s share she is sure to reply,
With the trace of a twinkle to light up her eye:
‘Just half of that, please.’
I’ve cut down her portions but still she tells me:
‘Just half of that, please.’
Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see:
‘Just half of that, please.’
If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two,
There’s nothing so small but a smaller will do,
And she says, perhaps fearing she’s taking from you:
‘Just half of that, please.’
When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear:
‘Just half of that, please.’
When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear:
‘Just half of that, please.’
And for fear they may think she is selfish up there,
Or is taking what may be a young angel’s share,
She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear:
‘Just half of that, please.’
Other works by Edgar Albert Guest...
