The kids all know our Winnie’s Baking.
She stands at the cooker, her poor feet aching.
Up to her elbows in pastry and flour
She kneads and she beats, hour after hour.
On her crisp apple cheek a snowdrift of white.
She keeps rolling the dough, her electric eyes bright
As tray upon tray of pasties and cakes
Lighter than feathers when our Winnie bakes.
The heady aromas waft down the street.
You can soon hear the patter of little kids’ feet.
There they stand at the doorway all wriggling and twitching
Their young tummies rumbling outside Winnie’s kitchen
Awaiting the treats they know will be plenty.
Not one ever leaves with their pockets empty.
Winnie smiles her bright smile as she washes the pots
‘We may not have much but we share what we’ve got!”
And finally Winnie has filled all her tins
And fed all the children and most of their kin.
She and her husband at last sit to eat- Eeh, it’s such a relief to get off of her feet!
“Aye Tommy,” she says, “they may call me a Red.
But at least the poor bairns won’t go hungry to bed!”
There is no way of counting just how many cakes
That over the years our dear Winnie baked.
She died without fortune, money or fame.
But those that she helped out remember her name.
No great reader of books or philosophy
She could best any theorist with a first class degree.
For from Winnie’s kitchen true meaning was given
To a word for which many have perished and striven
Now a word seldom heard.
The word –socialism.