I have just returned from dinner at the house of Jack Sprat and his enormous wife. It was a typically small affair. Besides me, the Sprats had only invited Little Jacker Horner and that tedious Hubbard woman who always insists on bringing her mangy dog along. There are never any bones or scraps to feed the poor animal since the Sprats always lick their platters clean, as is well known, so I don't know why she doesn't just leave the beast at home.
Predictably, there were only two options on the Sprat's famously limited menu: fat ala carte, or lean with a side of starch. Frankly I find both of these choices distinctly unappetizing, but it would be rude to decline, and so I just chew away while pretending that I'm actually eating a dainty dish of baked blackbird pie instead.
The evening ended with a recitation of Retirement Home Rhymes, which are pretty much the same as Nursery Rhymes except that they are very long and depressing rather than brief and whimsical. My personal favorite is Tom Tom the Reaper's Son. I'm sure you know how it goes:
Predictably, there were only two options on the Sprat's famously limited menu: fat ala carte, or lean with a side of starch. Frankly I find both of these choices distinctly unappetizing, but it would be rude to decline, and so I just chew away while pretending that I'm actually eating a dainty dish of baked blackbird pie instead.
The evening ended with a recitation of Retirement Home Rhymes, which are pretty much the same as Nursery Rhymes except that they are very long and depressing rather than brief and whimsical. My personal favorite is Tom Tom the Reaper's Son. I'm sure you know how it goes:
Tom Tom the Reaper's son
Is very old and nearly dead
His time is near
His grave is here
And poor old Tom is filled with fear
All in all it was a very pleasant evening, but I don't think I'll be going back there again in a hurry.Is very old and nearly dead
His time is near
His grave is here
And poor old Tom is filled with fear
See also: Grown Up Nursery Rhymes
