Classic Poem

He sat at the dinner table
With a discontented frown,
The potatoes and steak were underdone
And the bread was baked too brown;
The pie was too sour and the pudding too sweet,
And the roast was much too fat;
The soup so greasy, too, and salt,
'Twas hardly fit for the cat.

“I wish you could eat the bread and pie
I've seen my mother make,
They are something like, and 'twould do you good
Just to look at a loaf of her cake.”
Said the smiling wife, “I'll improve with age—
Just now I'm but a beginner;
But your mother has come to visit us,
And to-day she cooked the dinner.”