I feel like I’m sorting through ancient archives here – although some of the bits and scraps of paper are in less than pristine condition. This is a little poem my dad used to recite to us, and then to his grandchildren. I guess the crust wasting thing is genetic. This paper looks like it’s been picked up by someone with greasy sticky fingers. Perhaps in the process of descretely discarding his toast crusts. It’s the kind of family heirloom that is definitely worth preserving. Sage parental advice passed down through the generations. Never mind ranting about starving kids in Africa. If you want your kids to do something they don’t want to do, scare the bejeesus out of them. If this poem fails to do that, at least you’ve made them laugh.
My Crust
Last night I left a crust under my plate.
I thought nobody would see it there.
But, when it got dark and late
And I was all snugged in my bed,
I saw that very same old crust
Come creeping over my bed.
“Don’t you ever do that again!”
“I never will” I said.
“I’ll eat you up to the very last crumb
If you’ll only get down off my bed.”
