Grandma's Apron
I look at that old picture hanging stately on the wall
Old Gray-haired Granny’s apon, the glue that stuck it all
It’s faded, almost white, as the years battered the brown
Days are few, indeed, when grandma’s apron wasn’t around
I know that spot on her bosom, where I lay my little head
That apron wiped away many a tear that stained every
thread
It did its duty as a blanket that kept little babies warm
A pad, to hold a coffee pot at breakfast on an early morn
A flag to scatter the chickens from the old weathered door
Carried eggs to the kitchen, lifted tea pitchers, pots, pan galore
It became a grip to open a jar, never seemed to strain
Even doubled as an umbrella to keep off a summer rain
Just an old apron, the fabric stained and rough
It was the tool of all tools, in her world good enough
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