Lumps - Electric Bard

Wash the bucket, wipe the lid, grab the paddle stick Roll the sleeves above the elbow, make the motion quick Ten past six and half the village waiting at the gate Every tub of breakfast milk is souring with hate Splashing on the checkered tile, dribble on the shoe Half a gallon on the floor that never made the stew Arthur drops his wooden spoon, rubbing at his wrists Swears he saw the butter curdle into little fists Keep the wooden dasher thumped until the yellow shows Sweating down the forehead to the tip of every nose Beat The Wooden Paddle On The Earthen Crock Race The Heavy Pendulum Around The Clock Scrape The Milky Butter From The Splintered Pine Hoping That The County Inspector Finds It Fine Spill on the apron, blister on the thumb Nobody can eat until the solid lumps come Mistress Miller claims she heard a goblin in the churn Said the local fairy folk had spoiled the return I told her that the heifer only chewed on bitter weed Blaming little devils is a lazy sort of deed Up and down and up again, shoulder starts to scream Chasing little bubbles through a lake of heavy cream Young apprentice missed the beat and tipped the wooden tub Now we got an hour full of mop-and-water scrub If you want to sing a song of springtime on the green You better show the muscle that keeps the platter clean Turn the crank. Rinse the pan. Scoop the whey. Curse the man. If the salt is missing, they will throw it in the street. Hard work makes the sour puddle sweet. Beat The Wooden Paddle On The Earthen Crock Race The Heavy Pendulum Around The Clock Scrape The Milky Butter From The Splintered Pine Hoping That The County Inspector Finds It Fine Spill on the apron, blister on the thumb Nobody can eat until the solid lumps come Slosh the crock. Pack the crock. Yellow lump. Solid rock.