Your mother has grown old my child,
She as a little limp, and blindness mild.
She has unmatched dreams and a broken heart,
And a whole lot of tears wheeled in a cart...
The day you were born little dear,
Your father sat there with a can of beer;
While your mother screamed with fear and winced in pain,
He was oblivious like a fish in the rain!
When she saw you amidst the smoke and the blood,
She kissed your tiny head, tears ran in flood.
You grew a little, barely managed to talk,
Your mother held you, helped you walk.
He still had a pipe to smoke, and a can of beer,
An empty pocket, a bare heart and a mouthfull of sneer.
Your mother fought and fought hard but well,
She soiled the clothes,drew her blood as her fingers swelled.
You continued to grow but her dreams not,
The tears fell,the breath gave away but she tried a lot.
You grew up with all the realisation of growth,
The hands ran,the body shrank,the world swayed back and forth.
Days passed and nights grew longer,
You waited for the grim but that made you stronger.
One day when he was having beer, you came near,
You showed him the black holes and your tears.
It didn't matter to him, the beer was still on
The next day broke in red, but you were gone!
