It's About Thyme
Perplexed when mother called me to the door
and looked with scowl and doubt at my small hands,
then asked if I had washed them, or once more,
had failed to use the soap and rinse the sands.
When I looked at her and saw her glaring eyes,
then back out to the sandbox where toys sank,
I quickly, in my little mind summ'ized,
that if my hands weren't washed, then I'd get spanked.
My dinner had been ready for some Thyme.
And Mama had already called me in.
And yet I stayed and played as though sublime,
and that's when I remember my first sin.
I lied, Yes Mama, I have washed my hands.
She looked and smiled and I felt I had hope.
I was so happy she did understand,
and scurried to the sink to find some soap.
The kitchen had a smell of apple pie
and Mama, she was standing at the sink.
And so I ran right upstairs to keep the lie
and passing by her, she gave me a wink.
So dinner had avoided reprimands
'til Mama gave my Papa a high sign,
and Papa asked if I had washed my hands.
I nodded, then he shouted, "It's 'bout Thyme!"