The h2g2 Poem
Created | Updated Aug 20, 2003
Mother
The first thirty three
Years are the hardest, they say.
By the time I reach
Sixty six I sincerely
Hope to have cracked
This 'being adult' lark.
Being adult, I'm told
Means becoming childlike again.
Now, for a woman who,
By the age of three was
A professional parody of a grown up,
This poses a few problems.
I don't know what it is
To be childlike...
Childish? No problem!
Childlike? What's that?
Does it mean, as I wish I could,
Weep and call for my mother?
Weep and call for my mother
And say I don't feel loved,
I don't feel loved or wanted?
My own children
Weep and call for me.
They tell me they feel sad
They feel lonely or
Frightened, and I hold them.
And I do the best I can.
One day, it will occur to me
That I could share my children's mother
And then I needn't call for my own.
