If I shouldn't be alive when the robins come, tell mama to make a pie.
Mama always liked those robins,
The twinkling shimmer within their eye.
I thought it'd taste better than a black bird.
Told little Johnny to get his gun.
It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard,
As it made its descent from the sky.
"Mama will be so proud," I said,
As I ran home to make my pie.
All ingredients mixed, I slid it in the oven,
Heard mama approach the steps then shouted,
"Mama come on in!"
Mama questioned me about the smell,
To which I hung my head.
"I thought you'd tell me I'd done well,"
Opening the oven door.
I took one look at mama's face,
As she toppled to the floor.
When mama came to I asked if I had forgotten to fold a feather.
With one stern look and a finger waggin' too
She looked up at me and exclaimed,
"Don't you ever do this again, EVER!"
So that was the end to my robin pies,
Though the story will always live on.
That's why when mama sees robins, she'll think of this,
Even long after I'm gone.
