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An upheaval of soil, a yank of the plant
A spade in the ground, pulling what Mother can’t.
She works rapidly, tugging every growth in sight,
So there’ll be no “ugly” weeds, much to her delight.
The neighbors would smile, complimenting her work
And Mother would know that it was worth every jerk.
However I, by her side, lay down in the grass,
Staring at oceans of blue sky, watching clouds pass.
The green grasses grow free in the inky black soil,
Then riiiip! Mother moves on, as if it’s no toil.
And to think that my mother just cares about this?
The weeds need no pulling! They will somewhat be missed.
I have never found trouble in weeds, standing free
For they’ve never done any kind of harm to me.
They just grow up where they want, without any care
And I’m still laying here, the grass in my long hair.
It strikes me hard, like a truck, ideas galore
I jump to my feet, go to plead my case once more.
“Please, mother? Can I please go to Julliard next year?”
She tells me no, that I’ll go to college ‘round here.
She moves to the next one, like my words have no sound
And with a yank, pulls the free-growing weed from the ground.