Mother To Son
No child, do not think I hate you
When I hit you with the rod.
Not that I am wilder than our wildest mothers
Or hate to see you play,pick or pluck
Sweet pleasure with your hands.
Do not admire those who do the drugs
And taking too much drink, take their own wits.
You cannot afford to be at a standstill
Like those who watch and wait
For the wings of chance.
When all is harsh around and about
When your mates mark and make their way
You cannot afford to be at a standstill!
Go to school and make for yourself a man
Grow up, my little man and warm
My heart with your wisdom.
Do not let your prime wander
And by wandering lose the way.
Seize the satchel while spring is green
For if you are shiftless or lazy,
Time shall fall frozen upon your face