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Mama Mama 
You the downest Mama 
Mama wear dat crown 
Mama held it down with the brushes 
of Yahweh on her right side 
Reverently agreeing with the gist 

“children are a gift” 
A little planting, A little watering  
and He will make them grow 
Painting with the strokes of her affection 

These instruments in her possession 
Mixed the wisdom of her palate 
fusion of healing juices twisted from 
her experienced life without 
flinches or regrets of the cards dealt

Etched variable expressions of my 
features without the reflections of the price 
she had to pay
Having missed the gentle friction of 
a Mothers pride against her cheeks 
Splashed all her siblings in a parade 
with bouquets, moods, attributes 

Protection from the dark monochromatic 
schemes of her own child hood 
I wanna lay down and scream 
because certain facets of my life 
Didn’t make good to dress her feet 
and grace of being first-born 
possessed not exact utensils needed 

for I would give anything to shower 
sparkling finish on her burnished 
skin and give her the place that she belongs in 
Among dignitaries underneath Sheba's crown 
Relentless to sprinkle aloud asking God 
to keep making me grow 

Mama Mama 
You the downest Mama 
Mama wear dat crown 
Ask that God keep making me sound

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