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.