My Mama Didn'T Raise No Punk Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Let me say this...
My mama didn't raise no punk!
Not when she would slam dunk me,
Away from public view.

Or dared me not to do those things,
She told me to.
Or take my time!
Mama came from the old school.
And she didn't hesitate,
To strike fire to my behind.

Let me say this...
My mama didn't raise no punk!
She knew exactly what she was doing with me.
She raised me to become independent.
Not a chump.

I was raised to use my mind.
And defend my thoughts!
And any gift I got from mama,
Is was bought for me because it was earned!
Like those whippings for my backtalk.
My mama didn't have easy lessons taught.
None that I remember were for me quickly learned.

But over time I did.
Since I didn't like to sit...
On a burned butt after getting whipped!

Eventually they sunk in...
Those lessons.
Deep.
To stay.

If I was ever to become a punk...
It was going to be done mama's way.
With a tormenting whipping,
As she held me,
Screaming...
'I've got it, if you want it.
And you're going to get it good.
What's my name? '

Mama.

'What is it? '

Mama.

'And don't you forget it!
Who's your mama? '

You're my mama, mama!

'That's right!
And don't you forget it,
Not one bit.
Or I'll be back to give you more...
Of some of this.
Don't play with me, boy! '


Dedicated:
My Mother, Edna Pearl Roberts (Prudhomme) Pertillar
And my paternal Grandmother, Clara Louise Countryman Pertillar

'Thank you! '