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
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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