Cookies up to the ceiling,
Cakes coming out of my ears,
But that sweet gingerbread house,
Lurks at the edge of my fears,
Always pudding on offer,
And home-made cheesecake,
With sweetened lemonade,
While I lie in the garden to bake,
Tea practically a fountain,
Hot, milky and steaming,
But always that niggling doubt,
That perhaps I should be screaming,
Big owl-eye glasses,
Coiled grey locks,
If she was really evil,
I would be shocked,
"Do you want some ice-cream?"
Now, my sweet Grandma calls,
Well now, for that,
She knows I always fall,
I suppose in all my summers,
She hasn't cooked me yet,
Now I just have to wonder,
What she's doing with that big old net?
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