a poem from my mother (it’s still national poetry month)

Sometime in the early sixties, my mother clipped this poem from a newspaper and gave it to me. Since then, I have recited it aloud and to myself 1,000 times. Way to go, Mom.

In youth it was a way I had
To do my best to please
And change with every passing lad
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do.
And if you do not like me so
To hell, my love, with you.


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