September 19, 2012

Bless This Mess

The trip food makes
From plate to face
Is perilous at best

More often than not
I’ll find that I’ve got
To get something off my chest

My soup will splatter
Wee drops of matter
Upon my sleeve or wrist

Each crumb or drip
Escapes my lip
With not one flick of the wrist

But I’m much too kind
To really pay mind
To a few bits on my shirt

They just go to tell
That I’m fed quite well
A most blessed type of dirt

1 comment:

  1. lol - the same thing happens to my dad. He can't figure it out. "I used to never do this," he's says.


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