Take It

Take it out of my cupboard,
A dish of some kind.
So that when I have left here,
No more will you find.

The platter...all scalloped,
With it's gold-tinted rim.
And the dish to hold berries,
with it's elegant trim.

Take the round of cut glasses.
That came from Old-Spain.
With their frosted red-roses,
With their rough fluted grain.

And the cup, by it's saucer,
Let it be your first pick.
For it has long carried,
Hot-drinks...to the sick.

O Come...All you people,
Turn open the door.
For where I am going,
I'll need them no more.


E.P. 1908 - 1989