Mothers never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
Makes no difference that you grow
Up to forty years or so,
Once you cough, you’ll find that she
Sees you as you used to be,
An’ she wants to tell to you
All the things that you must do.
Just show symptoms of a cold,
She’ll forget that you’ve grown old.
Though there’s silver in your hair,
Still you need a mother’s care,
An’ she’ll ask you things like these:
‘You still wearing b. v. d.’s?
Summer days have long since gone,
You should have your flannels on.’
Grown and married an’ maybe
Father of a family,
But to mother you are still
Just her boy when you are ill;
Just the lad that used to need
Plasters made of mustard seed;
An’ she thinks she has to see
That you get your flaxseed tea.
Mothers never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
All her gentle long life through
She is bent on nursing you;
An’ although you may be grown,
She still claims you for her own,
An’ to her you’ll always be
Just a youngster at her knee.
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