My granddaddy, rest his soul,
Made the best home-made sweet rolls

With arthritic, deformed hands
He made them from scratch
12 perfectly shaped rolls
Never once made a bad batch

How, I would wonder, did he
With those calloused rough hands,
Make them so light and fluffy?

He would let me be the one
To decide how big they'd rise
And believe me, I'd let them
Get enormous in size.

In the oven they would go
Heaven in the making
Even the neighbors could smell
Those homemade rolls baking

The aroma would waft from
The kitchen out the backdoor
Down the street, across the street
A sweet smell no one could ignore

Then the timer would ring
And out they would come
Two plates on the table,
Butta, syrup, yummy yum

One roll, two, three, four more
I ate until my tummy was sore
Fingers would be sticky with syrup
Then I'd let out a great big burp

He'd laugh as I held my head in shame
Then he'd turn around and do the same
Then I'd laugh until I got sick
And when he wasnt looking
The plate I'd lick.