This is a poem I wrote for my dear mother.
Mother, Mother, Oh so dear,
Telling me my hands are ugly,
Smoking with your hands so fair,
Mother, Mother, I shall not bore you,
With my childish talk,
And my whitened hair,
Mother, Mother, I design Chanel now;
Yes Mother, I will not talk of work,
I know how it bores you so
Mother, Mother, I will wear my glasses,
My glasses so dark in the night,
To cover up my evil eye from you
Mother, Mother, how is hell?
Is the devil treating you well?
Does he let you play his fiddle?
Does he have the fire turned on well?