Turn Hand Make Fashion

The cooking oil ran out Before the dough began to fry She took the fishgut out And broast it empty till it dry Then making smaller cakes She potted them crispy again On medium flame, flakes Of brown, the royal taste remain. When the pants were shabby This grown boy saw her cut the leg And with competency Placed a seamless patch, I couldn't beg Nothing newer for pride. I wore my short pants out of tall With a warm smile inside For the most industrious of all She cured wounds with the sod Mixed in with a little spittle, Made soap from ackee pod, And her meat with spanish needle. She shined the floor with fat From melted candle, boiled water With glass and sun; her chat Was in prayer, her drink laughter. Nothing was wasted there Were mother kept us in her flock Her folks ways did she share Through proverbs; her faith tough as rock. They say turn hand, make it Turn hand and make fashion, my dear The unconquered spirit Of my mother, forbids the world a tear.