As I look at my dinner plate I think back on meals past
And none of them quite noteworthy as a Saturday morning breakfast plate.
Made in the early afternoon by my father as he said "only the best for my baby girl"
Piling bacon and biscuits and eggs drowned in hot sauce onto my plate
But now I'm left with only crumbs and an oily residue
Sure to be hard to remove, the bittersweet remnants of a meal
I hoped would never end