- Feb 25, 2001
- 24
- 0
Cooking Miss Marva
Now Miss Marva
She was a big and hefty woman
As big as the world is round
That old apron of hers
Could hardly gather around
Her hips anymore
And her bare feet
Were tougher
Than old stone grounds
But when she cooked
Miss Marva cooked
With her soul
She sweetened her broth once
With three proposals
For marriage
And with a dash of
Vinegar and honey
She turned each suitor down
But
At night
She danced the 'Shimmy'
Down at Possum's Juke Joint
And left the stove on
To simmer the sequins
Of her dressing gown
It was during
The Great Depression
But Miss Marva's pot
Could still serve plenty
On Sundays
Marva fed
The entire Church family
Cos'
To coloured folks back then
It was just another day
Without cotton
So they bowed their heads
And said their grace
When Marva's meat
Turned brown
Once
She rolled up her lover
With brown rice and black-eyed peas
That night when tired Willie
Came home drunk
But the taste of her own blood
And the sight of
Drunken Willie on his knees
Spoiled Marva's appetite
For the taste
Of life's bitter delicacies
And
On the day that she came home
And found her Mama
Dead of a Stroke
She stuffed her in the coffin
With cooked carrots,
Bread crumbs and potatoes
Cos'
She remembered her Mama's words
Not so long ago
"Marva in this world its the stuffing that counts.."
The first Monday of July
She put her crippled brother Henry
In the pot
And seasoned his memory
With salty tears, garlic and onions
With him being coloured and crippled
Then dying in the midst
Of the Depression
She knew that Henry
Would surely
Find his own way to Heaven
And
When her water
Began to boil
Marva stirred herself
Into the pot
With deep fried okra, honeyed yams
Green peas and scallions
But
Now who is leftover
To tend to
Miss Marva's Cooking pot
When life evaporates
Just as quickly
As boiling water
*meditate*
this edition has been blackbelle's vision
All Rights Reserved
Now Miss Marva
She was a big and hefty woman
As big as the world is round
That old apron of hers
Could hardly gather around
Her hips anymore
And her bare feet
Were tougher
Than old stone grounds
But when she cooked
Miss Marva cooked
With her soul
She sweetened her broth once
With three proposals
For marriage
And with a dash of
Vinegar and honey
She turned each suitor down
But
At night
She danced the 'Shimmy'
Down at Possum's Juke Joint
And left the stove on
To simmer the sequins
Of her dressing gown
It was during
The Great Depression
But Miss Marva's pot
Could still serve plenty
On Sundays
Marva fed
The entire Church family
Cos'
To coloured folks back then
It was just another day
Without cotton
So they bowed their heads
And said their grace
When Marva's meat
Turned brown
Once
She rolled up her lover
With brown rice and black-eyed peas
That night when tired Willie
Came home drunk
But the taste of her own blood
And the sight of
Drunken Willie on his knees
Spoiled Marva's appetite
For the taste
Of life's bitter delicacies
And
On the day that she came home
And found her Mama
Dead of a Stroke
She stuffed her in the coffin
With cooked carrots,
Bread crumbs and potatoes
Cos'
She remembered her Mama's words
Not so long ago
"Marva in this world its the stuffing that counts.."
The first Monday of July
She put her crippled brother Henry
In the pot
And seasoned his memory
With salty tears, garlic and onions
With him being coloured and crippled
Then dying in the midst
Of the Depression
She knew that Henry
Would surely
Find his own way to Heaven
And
When her water
Began to boil
Marva stirred herself
Into the pot
With deep fried okra, honeyed yams
Green peas and scallions
But
Now who is leftover
To tend to
Miss Marva's Cooking pot
When life evaporates
Just as quickly
As boiling water
*meditate*
this edition has been blackbelle's vision
All Rights Reserved