Mother Persnickety Poem by Charles Cross

Dawn arrives apt, ever in serenity,
And preens the day for Mother Persnickety.

Unduly beast plaint in fear
Of a woman so prompt, fractious and near.

Eat when you wash your hands, clean under the nail,
Arrange feathers, brush fangs, and dust thy shell.

No qualm beset in her, if you keep from clutter,
After cavorting in the woodlands with each other,

And we jettison the hours, as young often do,
And Time plays a jest with hours so few.

Dusk prods us to bed, tucked in serenity,
As we kiss the cheek of Mother Persnickety.