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 My Moms were the nicest

The flour sifter bin was in a high place,
I filled it from a chair and got a white face.
But, it was worth it to do this chore,
because the baking mom did I still adore.
She made everything she cooked from scratch,
the eggs and the sugar made a sweet batch.
After she had stirred the things in a bowl,
I scraped the sides with my fingers, it sweetened my soul.
She had no gas stove she lit the wood with a match,
I still smell the cookies my nostrils did catch.
 This is my memory of the good old days I lived,
now we have flour we don't have to sieve.
And licking the bowl seems to have faded away,
now wrapped in plastic the cookies do stay.
You just take the dough out and cut it in slices,
but until my grave my moms were the nicest.

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