They pluck your plums, your mum and dad
They eat them for their supper, too
They gobble all the fruit you had
And leave some bullshit note for you

But they were robbed blind in their day
Of damsons, prunes, and blackthorn sloes
Their breakfast treats were poached away
And justified with old-style prose

“Forgive us” both your parents moan
“They were delicious, sweet, and cold”
They wonder why I never phone
And from them my own kids withhold

(See also)