Mother

Cheers to my mother I’ll share a tale, After a swig of lime-soaked gin, To which I’ll use the drink to avail, Words worthy of an eyesight’s spin: There lives a queen with hair so red, Whose crown was her very cerise hair, Which pours from her head as if it bled, A tindered incandescent flare. Her eyes are curuscating refined malachite, That see through all that glows, For they're sharper than unrefined aragonite, And show there's little they do not know. For she can see through all times and spaces, With her mystical clairvoyant senses, And befriend the hidden elemental races, That dance between temporal tenses. Her beauty is bound in her face and affection, She loves with adamant ardor all that live, Who for she feels a psychic connection: A sovereign protection from the love she gives. I know her as Queen Maeve the Red, And 'tis better that it's said, That this divine lady who's oh so calm, Is my marvelous and magical mom. Forgive me mother, for like father I have awoken, To a rocks glass full of Bombay sapphire, A drink inside my mouth before a word from it has spoken, Disregard my drunken adage as it’s nothing but satire.