He didn't like my casserole.
He didn't like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard.
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn't perk the coffee right.
He didn't like the stew.
I didn't mend his socks the way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer, I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked the crap out of him . . .
Like his mother used to do.
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