My Mummy

My Mummy

A Poem for Mothers' Day

I  am  grateful  to  my  Mummy.

She  taught  me  how  to  play  gin  rummy;

She  taught  me  how  to  swear  and  fight:

Feint  with  the  left,  floor  with  the  right.

From  her  I  got  my  taste  for  whisky.

The  doctor  said  it  would  be  risky

To  breastfeed  me  and  to  tipple,

But  I’d  get  drunk  there  at  her  nipple.

I  won’t  hear  a  word  against  my  Maw  --

A  capital  crime  by  my  own  law.

I’ll  hold  your  throat  till  you  turn  blue,

Bite  off  your  ear  and  have  a  chew.

I’ll  pound  your  face,  turn  it  to  mince.

I’ll  have  you  know,  you’ll  more  than  wince.

But,  she  seems  to  miss  the  meaning

Of  what  it  is  that  she  is  screaming,

When  in  anger,  in  a  voice  deep  and  rich,

My  Mummy  calls  me  a  son of a bitch.

                                                                             (c)Frank Rooney

By the way, this is not a poem about my own, real mother, who is the kindest, least selfish person in the world.