Mother Poem by Scott Stanley Davis

Every one call's her mother because there is no one other, who knows what you need to do. Now you might have an education and all kinds extra specifications. But you haven't come across Mother, For she knows about more than any other. She has been around along time and her experience that is renown and profound, and her mind is very sound. So don't you go around trying to be a clown, thinking you're so sound. You don't know where she's been in her hundred and ten, why she even built the cotton gin, and can play a violin, and can ride a Schwinn. She was in the desert once and brought Moses his lunch, then told him about a little fire, that was in a brier, and that he better not sing in a choir, to go up a little higher and maybe change his attire. During the war she work for a store that made the C-4, that she just deplored, and told them the M4 needed a lazor. She had a theory once, while she was having brunch, and shared it with a nice young man, who had erred, then was unprepared when she said E= MC squared, that he went and declared. But that was okay, cause she never liked the glare of the spotlight anyway. This is mother and there is no one other, who can help you get through life's ups and downs, so you just better sit down and listen and learn something, and you won't grow up to be a nothing-says mother