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Honor a Mother (or a Mutha) with poetic help from Scott

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Honor a Mother (or a Mutha) with poetic help from Scott

A poetic holiday treat

Happy Mother's Day!

Mother’s Day is upon us now, and how it gets me to reminiscing
‘bout all the good ol’ days gone by that I’m bound to always be missing.
Here’s to you, oh mom of mine, fer always bein’ supportive
and fer backin’ me up since I was a pup, no matter what my motive.
For the only way kids seem to learn about life and the pursuit of what makes ‘em happy
is to learn by experience from their own ideas, whether good ones or those that’re crappy.
It’s pretty much a Darwinian concept called ‘Survival of Life’s Little Choices’
whether you follow up on yer parents’ ideas or listen only to yer own inner voices.
Moms, it seems, have a conditional sense of leavin’ ya to your own devices
to learn by mistakes, ‘cause that’s what it takes to appreciate their prices.
Moms are like that, moms are sweet, just skin yer knee and she’ll give you a treat.
And if you stumble over an embarrassing bumble, she’ll help you to keep it discreet.
I remember how she’d always say, “Your happiness is all that matters.
You’ll learn best by doin’, especially if it’s gruelin’ and leaves yer butt in tatters.”
She’d send me out to play in my own particular way to act out my childhood dreams,
knowin’ in her heart I’d eventually get smart and avoid those blood curdlin’ screams.
I was lucky to live through it, as kids often are.
It’s about choices and chances, some don’t get very far.
But one thing I do know, she allowed me to grow and loves me no matter what.
Our love ain’t just vernal, but ferever eternal, even though I’m some kinda nut!

I LOVE YOU MOM!

OR

Happy Mutha's Day!

Here’s to all you dirty muthas who’ve created such a mess.
Whose regular need of deception and greed has put is squarely in distress.
As you fly around in private jets with your bonuses and riches,
how can you even smile like that when we think yer sons a’ bitches?
Here’s to all the fat cat leaders of those brilliant institutions
who think their crap don’t stink and deserve such restitutions.
That put ‘em up on pedestals so high, they can’t even hear their victims cry
over dreams that’re shattered and with logic tattered, we can only wonder why.
And so it goes, we’ve been here before when others decided to loot the store.
Leaving millions of folks to put on their yokes and join the already poor.
It’s a method by which some people get rich, unconcerned with all the rest.
They’ll never let go of their ol’ status quo, to bein’ greedy they’ve never confessed.
There’s a rhythm of sorts if you study the graphs
of the Dow Jones Industrials just fer laughs.
How those snobs get richer and grab more control
through loopholes bored by lawyers they stole.
From a system geared toward upward expansions
designed primarily by those up in mansions
lookin’ down on the po’ folk who no longer have the means
to invest in much other than assorted dry beans.

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Author info

Scott Clawson Scott Clawson No, he's not the electrician, he's the OTHER Scott Clawson, who's a quality builder when he's not busy busting a gut while writing his humor column for the first issue of each month, or drawing his Acres n' Pains cartoons.

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