For better or worse, she's the voice in my head
The reason for half the tears that's ever been shed
In the big white mansion, up on the hill
And old lady now, she rules it still
Sit up straight; a lady is always quiet, polite
Dare to ignore you're the one who'd be contrite
Loved my old Gibson no matter to her
If it isn't opera you would cause a stir
Momma was the Dive as French as could be
Past the Pernod and croissants none could see
Bordeaux and banquette, none of us could pronounce
Wi Madame's all we answered and then we would run
Through the fields and the flowers so far away
Yet in my memory, my Momma would stay
Wear a dress, it's a Sunday Momma would say
Don't you dear peak while Papa would pray
No jeans or that Stetson, my daughter don't wear
So, the dress got all dirty with a big ugly tear
Yet, in wonder I listened when she played the violin
And softly she hummed as the mockingbird sang
Sometimes I do wonder, does she hear my songs now
Singing blues or country still with furrowed brow
Momma was the Dive as French as could be
Past the Pernod & croissants none could see
Bordeaux and banquette, none of us could pronounce
Wi Madame's all we answered and then we would run
Through the fields and the flowers so far away
Yet in my memory, my Momma would stay
Momma hear the violins even in country songs
If you listen up closely, they whisper your name...
YOU ARE READING
Dandelions In The Wind
PoetryThere are a lot of reasons why people write. For me it has always been like an addiction, a reporting on the world and therapy. People are my greatest inspiration and God created so many variants and flavours that we would always have something to...
