I'm getting ready for bed and recalling an old poem Mama read to us when we were small. I remember it because I notice a very large stain on my shirt...my food did not make it from my plate to my mouth but landed with a delightful, goop style plop right on my blouse...
So, here is a jaunt down Dungarvan street, sitting on Mama's blue velvet couch and watching her pretty mouth(and the pictures)as she read to us...
The Goops they lick their fingers,
And the Goops, they lick their knives,
They spill their broth on the tablecloth,
Oh!, they lead disgusting lives!
The Goops they talk while eating
and loud and fast they chew,
And that is why I'm glad that I
am not a Goop, Are you?