An Old Poem—In Honor of Mother's Day

I've written before of my mother's penchant for reciting old, and often strange, poems to us kids. I've heard from the other three that they think it's weird that I memorized these arcane bits of poetry, but I guess they're parts of my history, and even though few people ever seem to know them besides our family, I believe they're part of the personal lore of growing up.

I present for you here one of the little rhymes Mom swears she got from her own mother. I can't see any reason why she'd make that up, and Grandma didn't have time to write poetry, with fourteen kids, so I'll just mark it Anonymous. (He wrote so many things, anyway.)

Me Mudder

Who, when I was a wee wee tot,

Would take me from me warm warm cot,

And put me on the cold cold pot,

And tell me to go if me could or not?

Me Mudder.

And who, when me prayers were poorly said,

Would take me from me little bed,

And spank me til me bum were red?

Me Mudder.

And who, when the morning light would come,

And in me crib me dribbled some

Would wipe me tiny little bum?

Me Mudder.

And who would me hair so neatly part,

And hug me gently to her heart,

And sometimes squeeze me til me fart?

Me Mudder.

Who looked at me with eyebrows knit,

And nearly had a king-sized fit

When in me Sunday pants me S***?

Me Mudder.

And who when at night her bed did squeak,

And me raised me head to have a peek,

Would yell at me to go to sleep?

Me Fadder!