HENRY'S FRENCH TOAST


        Sometimes when I envy the love lives of others,
        And, by comparison, mine seems bewild'rin',
        I think back,
        Back to the days
        When my brother and I were children.
        When Henry and I were children
        On Sundays we'd have a treat---
        Mama would make us French toast to eat
        When Henry and I were children.
        But---

        Henry's French toast
        Always seemed better,
        Better and nicer
        Than any I'd known.
        I'd sit and I'd stare
        At Henry's French toast
        After I had finished my own.
        For his was always sugared
        And cut up nice and neat;
        Mama would always do it herself,
        Otherwise Henry wouldn't eat.
        Henry would sit,
        Sit there and dawdle,
        Dawdle and mash it
        And make little trees---
        I'd think as I stared
        At Henry's French toast:
        "Why am I so easy to please?"
        So Sunday after Sunday,
        I'd keep my hands controlled,
        Till one day I swiped a piece
        Of Henry's French toast---
        And you know what?
        It tasted the same as mine.
        Except that his was cold.
         
         
         

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