She appeared at the door
‘Neath my Sunday chapeau.
And the slippers she wore
Were a pair I should know.
The large purse in her hand
Was my object of pride.
As she struggled to stand,
With excitement she cried,
“I’m Miss Momma”.
Should possessions be saved
At so costly a price
As to say she behaved
In a manner not nice?
For what compliment paid
Could have been more sincere
Than the one that she made.
And I always shall hear:
“I’m Miss Momma”.
The Perfect Employer