I am a man well up in years with simple tastes and few, But I would like to eat again a dish my boyhood knew. A rare old dish that Mother made that filled us all with pep, This generation knows it not-we called it Schnitz and Knepp. I patronize all restaurants where grub is kept for sale, But my search up to the present has been without avail. They say they never heard of it, and I vainly wonder why, For that glorious concoction was better than pie. Dried apple snits, a slab of ham and mammoth balls of dough Were the appetizing units that filled us with a glow, When mother placed the smoking dish upon the dinner table, And we partook of its delight as long as we were able. My longing for that boyhood dish I simply will not shelf; If I cannot find it anywhere, I'll make the thing myself.