When our cook she makes a pie You oughter see her fingers fly! She sits an' holds a yeller bowl An' stirs so fast she keeps a hole Down through the middle of the stuff; There's milk an' egg, an' flour enough, And maybe other things, but I Ferget just all that makes a pie! When our cook she makes a pie She rolls the dough, that, by an' by, Is two round blankets; then you'll see Her slice some apples evenly. Plump into bed she makes 'em hop, An' cuts some peep-holes through the top So they won't smother when they lie All warm an' sugared in the pie. When our cook she makes a pie She balances the plate up high, And with a pleasant, snippy sound She trims it nicely all around. And when she's thumbed the edges tight, The apples can't get up at night. And when she's baked it, then, oh my! You never et such apple-pie! |