I ate off these when I was young
And spinach tasted like crap
And then again when dad fell trees
And smelled of sawdust and sap
I saw them under potted plants
That mum so dearly loved
And in the garage on Cleveland street
Under dads old coffee cup
They’ve held so many things
But none were solid gold
And what they hold for me now
Are treasured memories untold
They held the greens at dinnertime
That I gaze at in dismay
And good old Willie, would gobble them up
When dad looked the other way
These old plates and saucers
Have a story they could tell
Of a four-year-old’s sheer dismay
Chocking down that spinach from hell
So let it not be said that I
Have learned nothing from my past
I know now why my grandson
Looks at spinach in aghast
Am sending you this in hopes
Your memory to they jog
When we were just a family
And dad was cutting logs
I know not, when I saw them first
For I was but a kid
But I do recall washing them
As my brothers did
Originals they are not
For their scratches can be seen
But the memories they hold for me
Have an everlasting gleam
