GRANDMA’S APPLE PIE

GRANDMA’S APPLE PIE

Sunday lunch at Grandma’s,
Was always such a treat.
And afterwards her apple pie,
Was something we would eat.

She’d roll the pastry nice and thin,
Then fill it good and deep.
And Granddad watched her cut each slice,
To see what he could keep.

The family gathered round the table,
The kettle boiled for tea.
And Granddad said, A little slice,
Will be enough for me.

But he had hidden quite a chunk,
Behind a big blue plate.
High up inside the cupboard,
To have when it got late.

He sat and watched us eat our pie,
Then smiled and drank his tea.
For no one knew about his bit,
Or where that bit might be.

But later, when we’d cleared away,
He went to fetch his treat.
And found an empty little dish,
Without a crumb to eat.

Who’s had my pie? cried Granddad,
Who’s been inside my stash?
He turned and looked at all of us,
Then checked behind the mash.

He peered beneath the table,
He looked behind his chair.
The cat lay sleeping in its bed,
Without a single care.

Don’t blame the cat, said Grandma,
He’s slept there half the day.
And pies don’t grow a pair of legs,
And wander clean away.

The children shook their little heads,
We hadn’t had his pie.
But Grandma kept her head bent down,
And wouldn’t catch his eye.

Then Granddad saw the little crumbs,
Upon her cardigan.
You’ve eaten it! he cried aloud,
And that was when she ran.

She only made it to the door,
Before she had to stop.
For laughing with her slippers on,
Had made one slipper drop.

You said a little slice would do,
I heard you clear as day.
I thought you’d finished eating, love,
So helped the rest away.

Now Granddad guards his apple pie,
And keeps it on his knee.
While Grandma smiles and tells us all,
He’s learnt to share with me.