Some fellah says that thoughts are things And fly around like bats on wings, And, if we only knew the way, That not a word we'd have to say But just to think it so intent That someone else knew what we meant; And I agree, because I know That Mother often works it so. I've noticed it especially When we are havin' company: It's wonderful the way that Ma Can set on me and signal Pa And really never say a word That anybody ever heard, Yet lets us know there isn't much Of this or that or such and such. Pa never thinks. He yells, "Come on And have some more!" when things are gone; Or me, I start to pass my plate Again, for Mother's grub is great. But, if we're short, Ma doesn't say, "We haven't very much today" -- She acts as if she didn't hear And says, "Some apple sass, my dear?" Or, if it's him that makes a break, She says to Father, "Pass the cake"; And no one notices at all The cake is large, the chicken small. They call it all "telepathy"; I know it works with Pa and me; For more your plate you needn't pass When Mother starts the apple sass. |