In the early hours, before the dawn,
A mother’s work is never gone.
With gentle hands and heart so true,
She faces tasks that few would do.

A cry of need, a diaper’s call,
She rushes in, she handles all.
Poo and ***, the daily grind,
Yet in her eyes, love you’ll find.

The messes made, the spills and stains,
She cleans with care, she never complains.
For in each chore, a bond is built,
A mother’s love, without guilt.

Puke on the floor, a fevered brow,
She soothes with whispers, here and now.
Through sleepless nights and endless days,
Her strength and grace, a constant praise.

She wipes the tears, she calms the fears,
Through every stage, through all the years.
Her love endures, through thick and thin,
A mother’s heart, where life begins.

So, here’s to mums, in all they do,
In every mess, they see it through.
For in the poo, the ***, the puke,
They find the joy, the love, the truth.

a ray of light in my eye and
the living Word on my lap
a cup of milk in his hands
and the look of a loving mother
gazing upon the essence of her son.

sweet and sour,

he is ******* sap

from the **** of a

talentless swine.

her sapping, sip-less, sticky syrup-

succulent, seeking severance,

his salty belly-

spewing bile, screeching,

his barren belly-

bones shattering, squelching

his bloat-less belly-

innards squished,

her hooves so unkempt-

suffocating him with such ugly, udder-less love.