I’ve got a desire for a cheese sandwich on fresh white bread

Just like my mother used to make

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever taste one again

You know, not any old cheese sandwich

But the ones my mother used to make

 

On cold winter evenings

She’d serve stew and dumplings

And her poached eggs on toast was a wonderful feast

Not ordinary eggs

But the ones like my mother used to make

 

She’d serve me meat pie and chips with lashings of gravy

Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding

Mash and peas

And whatever else is cooking

 

She’d bake me some cakes with jam and cream

She’d bake me a custard tart that would taste like a dream

She’d make little buns with lemon curd

There’s so much more but my memory is blurred

 

I’ve always liked tomato soup from a tin

Mum would warm it up gently and butter some bread

And sometimes I even make it myself

But its not nearly as good as my mother used to make