MAMA, MAMA MY DEAR

Minister, writer, teacher.






These words I would say
If beyond the grave
I could speak
To she who life me gave.

Life for her was no picnic
Hell more than heaven.
Up starting breakfast
And fires to warm our home.

Before husband or children.
She had a quiet cup of tea
Made coffee and pancakes
Set the table and bacon on.

These were the days of my mom.
Winter, Summer, or Spring
Until the Lord her final toll rang.
We all gathered to listen,
To hear the noise from her kitchen.

None came except the blackened hearse.
We all followed her to the Cemetery.
Silence save for the grumbling of hungry souls.
Wake came lonely and lean, no Mama to feed.

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