The Frosting Dish By Edgar Albert Guest

The Frosting Dish

When I was just a little lad
Not more than eight or nine,
One special treat to make me glad
Was set apart as ‘mine.’
On baking days she granted me
The small boy’s dearest wish,
And when the cake was finished, she
Gave me the frosting dish.
I’ve eaten chocolate many ways,
I’ve had it hot and cold;
I’ve sampled it throughout my days
In every form it’s sold.
And though I still am fond of it,
And hold its flavor sweet,
The icing dish, I still admit,
Remains the greatest treat.
Never has chocolate tasted so,
Nor brought to me such joy
As in those days of long ago
When I was but a boy,
And stood beside my mother fair,
Waiting the time when she
Would gently stoop to kiss me there
And hand the plate to me.
Now there’s another in my place
Who stands where once I stood.
And watches with an upturned face
And waits for ‘something good.’
And as she hands him spoon and plate
I chuckle low and wish
That I might be allowed to wait
To scrape the frosting dish.

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