A wooden spoon
Was my favourite toy,
When I was young boy,
I would sit with my sister,
On the seat,
And pretend I had cooked us something to eat.
I grew up, wanting to cook,
But there was never enough food,
To cook all the meals
In my mum’s cook book.
I joined the army,
As a young man,
And most of the food,
It came in a can.
I done all the marching,
And I cooked all the food,
They all seemed to like it,
And said it was good.
But out on the field,
In the mud and cold,
I could not make a fire,
And so I was told,
To only eat cold meat,
And biscuits like clay.
I would dream of things,
I would cook one day,
Then it went very dark,
And then no noise,
“Here you are son”,
Said a soft man’s voice
“You can cook us our special,
On a golden plate”,
And “what’s that” I said
“Why its Angel Cake”
