Growing up on a Kansas Dairy farm, it was my brothers' job to milk by hand 34-31 registered Guernsay cows twice a day, but on Saturday the extra job we had was to slaughter at least 6 chickens, because Sunday at our farm house was known for a fried chicken dinner, and there were always people just dropping in either because they loved Mother's Sunday cooking, or because they were not able to provide for their own families dinners and they knew we would have plenty to share. As a bonus, there were almost always some girls coming around, many of them older girls who taught me and my brothers a thing or two about what to do on a Sunday afternoon behind the barn.
Below is the poem entitled SUNDAY DINNER A hillbilly sonnet which was written by poet
Bdosa. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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SUNDAY DINNER (Hillbilly sonnet)
Ma's cookin now, so come and set a spell
and you can bet we'll have her Sunday best
before the settin sun, and who can tell
what's on her stove--but it will meet the test.
Can't you just smell that fryin chicken now?
And you must know the gravie's fresh and hot
for pourin on them taters--I allow
a little more than I should have--so what?!?
The butter it just melts on bread so light
to compliment the vegetables we grow,
now if you know a life that's half as right
as this, you'd better make it yours to know.
And I will say the grace, to thank God for
what He has give--so He will give us more.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet