“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
The same applies to pans
2 comments:
Boy, do I have a job for you when you come visit me. LOL!
I'll trade you pitting damsons for scrubbing pans.
Good job! You've elevated yourself to "keeper husband".
You've heard of horse whisperers . . . Just call me 'The pan-handler' —said low and hoarse :)
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