Griselda is greedy, I'm sorry to say.
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She isn't contented with four meals a day,
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Like breakfast and dinner and supper and tea
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(I've had to put tea after supper-you see
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Why, don't you?)
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Griselda is greedy as greedy can be.
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She snoops about the larder
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For sundry small supplies,
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She breaks the little crusty bits
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Off rims of apple pies,
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She pokes the roast-potato-dish
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When Sunday dinner's done,
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And if there are two left in it
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Griselda snitches one;
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Cold chicken and cold cauliflower
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She pulls in little chunks-
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And when Cook calls:
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"What are you doing there?"
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Griselda bunks.
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Griselda is greedy. Well, that's how she feels,
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She simply can't help eating in-between meals,
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And always forgets what it's leading to, though
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The Doctor has frequently told her: "You know
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Why, don't you?"
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When the stomach-ache starts and Griselda says:
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"Oh!"
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She slips down to the dining-room
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When everyone's in bed,
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For cheese-rind on the supper-tray,
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And buttered crusts of bread,
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A biscuit from the biscuit-box,
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Lump sugar from the bowl,
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A gherkin from the pickle-jar,
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Are all Griselda's toll;
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She tastes the salted almonds,
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And she tries the candied fruits-
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And when Dad shouts:
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"Who is it down below?"
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Griselda scoots.
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Griselda is greedy. Her relatives scold,
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And tell her how sorry she'll be when she's old,
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She will lose her complexion, she's sure to grow fat,
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She will spoil her inside-does she know what she's at?-
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(Why do they?)
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Some people are greedy. Leave it at that.
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Griselda
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Natalie Merchant |