You may prate of gold, but your fortune lies, And you know it well, in your boy's bright eyes. And there's nothing that money can buy or do That means so much as that boy to you. Well, which does the most of your time employ, The chase for gold--or that splendid boy? Sausage You may brag about your breakfast foods you eat at break of day, Your crisp, delightful shavings and your stack of last year's hay, Your toasted flakes of rye and corn that fairly swim in cream, Or rave about a sawdust mash, an epicurean dream. But none of these appeals to me, though all of them I've tried-- The breakfast that I liked the best was sausage mother fried. Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know, The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow, But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan; Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man. All these new-fangled dishes make me blush and turn aside, When I think about the sausage that for breakfast mother fried. When they roused me from my slumbers and I left to do the chores, It wasn't long before I breathed a fragrance out of doors That seemed to grip my spirit, and to thrill my body through, For the spice of hunger tingled, and 'twas then I plainly knew That the gnawing at my stomach would be quickly satisfied By a plate of country sausage that my dear old mother fried. There upon the kitchen table, with its cloth of turkey red, Was a platter heaped with sausage and a plate of home-made bread, And a cup of coffee waiting--not a puny demitasse That can scarcely hold a mouthful, but a cup of greater class; And I fell to eating largely, for I could not be denied-- Oh, I'm sure a king would relish the sausage mother fried. Times have changed and so have breakfasts; now each morning when I see A dish of shredded something or of flakes passed up to me, All my thoughts go back to boyhood, to the days of long ago, When the morning meal meant something more than vain and idle show. And I hunger, Oh, I hunger, in a way I cannot hide, For a plate of steaming sausage like the kind my mother fried. Friends Ain't it fine when things are going Topsy-turvy and askew To discover someone showing Good old-fashioned faith in you? Ain't it good when life seems dreary And your hopes about to end, Just to feel the handclasp cheery Of a fine old loyal friend? Gosh! one fellow to another Means a lot from day to day, Seems we're living for each other In a friendly sort of way.