My Mom Made Me A Meatloaf

My mom made me a meatloaf, the best one ever made.
She's made it every Wednesday since I left 2nd grade.

The meatloaf isn't fancy, but tasty nonetheless.
It came down from her mother,
and her mother's mother, Tess.
The recipe's a secret that that mom says not to tell,
But what the heck, I'm such a mess;
I'll tell you just as well:

First she squishes up the hamburger - it squeezes through her hands,
She adds in crumpled crackers (sometimes Ritz or other brands).
And then go in the onions, just a little, just a touch.
It makes me cry to think that I
Am valued oh so much!

A little this, a little that, an egg and spices, too;
And soon the mixture looks just right -
A great red pile of goo.

She forms a loaf inside a pan, she shapes it left and right,
Then in it goes, the oven glows; I shudder with delight!
I stand and wait, I watch the clock, I listen with my nose,
Cause I can tell just by the smell,
And "ooo's" and "ahhh's" and "ooh's!"

I love my mother's meatloaf.  I stab it with a fork.
It tastes so good, I knew it would; my mom's is the best, of course!
The reason why she makes it is actually not quite clear;
A meatloaf every Wednesday?  That's seems a little weird!
Yet I'm thankful that she does it; I smile from ear to ear,
It must mean that, 'I love you,' times 52 each year.