The woman's poem....
He didn't like the casserole
And he didn't like my cake,
He said my biscuits were too hard
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn't perk the coffee right
He didn't like the stew,
I didn't mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
So I turned around and smacked him one
Like his mother used to do.
Unashamedly taken from another forum.
But ... He loved her frozen sprouts
Hi this poem brings back memories.When I was first married, every time i cooked a joint of meat.It was never up to his mothers standard. I got so fed up with this,one day he complained,I just picked the plate of dinner up ,an put it over his head.