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