Mommy -- I'm hungry, Mommy -- I'm tired
A job from which she can't be fired
She can't be retired or even quit
Mommy is Mommy and that's it
With wilted flowers clutched in a dirty hand
A loving gift -- ever so grand
A picture cut from a magazine
An ugly bug -- all speckled and green
The strangest gifts you could behold
Richer, grander, than silver and gold
The love a child has for his mother
Cannot be beaten by any other.

by Anna Helen McDonald

Other poems of ANNA HELEN MCDONALD (5)

Comments (1)

lovely...... nice poem, thanks