An elderly Scotsman is dying.
He is lying in his bed.
When he thinks he smells home baking,
or is it in his head?
With all of the strength he can muster,
he reaches his bedroom door.
Crawls on all fours downstairs
ignoring his pain so sore.
He finally arrives at the kitchen,
stares at the groaning big table.
Covered in home made biscuits
made by his sweet wife Mable.
He"d loved her for fifty odd years
in fact for all of his life.
Was this a last act of kindness
from a loving devoted wife?
She knew he loved her home baking
and the table was laden indeed.
There was every conceivable biscuit
just waiting for someone to feed.
The old man felt so humble
like this was the promised land.
With dying breath he reached...
when a spatula whacked his frail hand.
they"re for the funeral."
Copyright © ned flanders