This poem was written by my mother.. for my brother.
A mother has her first child
her greatest pride and joy.
And as God does the picking,
he made my first a boy.
God doesnít do the raising,
he left that job to me.
Although he watched he gave no hint
what kind of man youíd be.
Many times I blamed him
that I had to do it alone.
So I spanked and yelled and scolded,
till soon I found you grown.
But when I thought my job was done
and stepped back to take a look.
I realized I had no pattern
or instructions from any book.
You were tall and gentle with a smiling face
a motherís real pride and joy.
So Iíll let you go with tear in eye,
my son, my man, my boy.