'I'll see that plate clean,' she said,
'Or I'll send you straight to bed.'
Liver and onions lie in wait,
two choices up for debate.

'I won't hear a word till you've finished.'
It lay there still undiminished.
It's cold, unfit to eat, congealed,
and nowhere can it be concealed.

'You should have thought of that before.'
When I grow up I'll eat no more
of that cabbage, liver - lousy crud.
Give me sweets and crisps, perhaps rice pud'.

She should have thrown it in the bin.
Now I'm stuck, a locust for my sin.
I must eat all, my waists expanding.
Though Mother's gone, her ghost's demanding.