Apparently The Squire lived a sheltered life; he’s never heard any of the good songs. A good while back, I was singing (I guess you can call it that) a little ditty that went this way:
Looking through the knothole in Father’s wooden leg,/Oh, who will wind the clock when I am gone?/Go get the ax; there’s a fly on Baby’s nose,/And a boy’s best friend is his mother.
He accused me of making it up.
A few days ago, he was helping me make Christmas cookies, and complained ~ rightly so ~ that the cat was in the way, winding back and forth underfoot.
Oh, they’re always in the way/The cows eat them for hay./ They hide the dirt on Grandpa’s shirt/Oh, they’re always in the way!
Again, he accused me of making up the whole thing. Now, mind you, he really does have a reason for feeling this way. Last week, El Condor Passa came on the radio, and I began to yodel. I’d rather have a quarter than dime/Oh, yes, I w-o-u-u-ld./ I’d rather have a Quarter than a dime/Just any t-i- m-e.
Yes, that’s one of my songs. As if you couldn’t tell.
The dog was not at all sure he liked it, sniffing and growling at the thing. The cat ran into the kitchen to see what was going on, and slammed on the brakes, skidding several feet. He took one look, arched his back and hissed! You’d have thought I’d have brought in a live animal into the house!
I’ve posed the jar beside a two cup measure so you can see how large this baby actually is. A bloody pound of the stuff! I’m seventy-six years old! I won’t live long enough to use all of it!
thisendoftheswamp 