At Breakfast Time

My Pa he eats his breakfast

  in a funny sort of way:

We hardly ever see him

  at the first meal of the day.

Ma puts his food before him

  and he settles in his place

An' then he props the paper up

  and we can't see his face;

We hear him blow his coffee

  and we hear him chew his toast,

But it's for the morning paper

    that he seems to care the most.

Ma says that little children

  mighty grateful ought to be

To the folks that fixed the evening

  as the proper time for tea.

She says if meals were only served

  to people once a day,

An' that was in the morning

  just before Pa goes away,

We'd never know how father looked

  when he was in his place,

Coz he'd always have the morning paper

  stuck before his face.

He drinks his coffee steamin' hot,

  an' passes Ma his cup

To have it filled a second time,

  an' never once looks up.

He never has a word to say,

  but just sits there an' reads,

An' when she sees his hand stuck out

  Ma gives him what he needs.

She guesses what it is he wants,

    coz it's no use to ask:

Pa's got to read his paper

  an' sometimes that's quite a task.

One morning we had breakfast

    an' his features we could see,

But his face was long an' solemn

  an' he didn't speak to me,

An' we couldn't get him laughin'

  an' we couldn't make him smile,

An' he said the toast was soggy

  an' the coffee simply vile.

Then Ma said: "What's the matter?

  Why are you so cross an' glum?"

An' Pa 'most took her head off

  coz the paper didn't come.