Mother, Mother
(With no apologies to William Blake)
Mother, Mother, working late
In a family of ingrates,
What paternal hand or eye
Could write thy fearful poetry?
In what distant northen 'burb
Comes gastronomy so superb?
What little comfort dare they bring?
What the mum, dare "Wiggles" sing?
And what the elbow, and what art,
Could stop you talking when you start?
And when the floor begins to dry,
What muddy person can get by?
What the lego? What the game?
From what Playdough is your brain?
What the teacher? What friend past
Could your love and care surpass?
When your kids throw down their fears,
And watr'd Heaven with our tears,
Did we smile your works to see?
Did she who made my lunch make me?
Mother, Mother, working late
In a family of ingrates,
What paternal hand or eye
Could write thy fearful poetry?
Written for my mum's birthday in 1999, after an extended poetry war
over the mess in my room.