Miss T Poem by Walter de la Mare
Miss T
It's a very odd thing -
As odd can be -
That whatever Miss T eats
Turns into Miss T.;
Porridge and apples,
Mince, muffins and mutton,
Jam, junket, jumbles -
Not a rap, not a button
It matters; the moment
They're out of her plate,
Though shared by Miss Butcher
And sour Mr. Bate;
Tiny and cheerful,
And neat as can be,
Whatever Miss T. eats
Turns into Miss T.
Yes, indeed, that is why our diets fail- - everything we eat sticks to our ribs
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 1:33:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
My Dad called me “Miss B“ because of this poem. Now, I’m think it was an unintentional curse.