From the Bisbee Daily Review, October 2, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Some folks prefer the fancy grub they serve at swell cafes, And cookin’ by a foreign chef is really quite a craze. The bill of fare, in fancy French, they like to take in hand To demonstrate that they can make the waiter understand. They order up a high toned meal that may be very fine, But when it comes to eatin’ good, I want no French in mine. I like the good old-fashioned meal, not like the kind you buy. It ends up with a great big slice of mother’s pumpkin pie. We always start in with the soup that is so lickin’ good, That everyone is helped again—that’s always understood. And then we have a husky roast and fixin’s family style, With sweet potatoes, hubbard squash, and father’s bound to pile Enough on every feller’s plate to last him for a week, And we all eat till we can hardly think or breathe or speak. But e’en at that we have to save some space, for bye and bye The climax of the meal must come, in mother’s pumpkin pie. They talk about the joys of wealth and how to live in style, But I am glad that I must live the old way for a while; There’s no dyspepsia in the house when mother’s on the job, No indigestion, dizzy spells or gout araisin’ hob, The meals are always served just right in winter, spring and fall. I like the whole year’s bill of fare, but one thing best of all— When I am through with earthly things and take my place on high, It won’t seem just like heaven without mother’s pumpkin pie.