She could dress a deer
She could flip a pancake
Her baking brought tears
Her meatloaf was heartbreak
She shuffled the kitchen
She never looked good
She was just trying to give them
Some good hearty grub
She grew fine cucumbers
Out in the garden
The farmhands remembered her
Out there quite often
They picked her some flowers
They never were fickle
They would give their right arms
For her and her pickles