a silly ode to my mama

My mama’s like a red red rose
With stem-green eyes . . . and a Cherokee nose?

Or maybe she’s more like a lily white,
With her statuesque height . . .and gait so light?

But perhaps this game is all fruitless play,
With no end in sight. And why’s that, you say?

Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you the reason;
I mean, after all, this "‘tis the season":

Mother, you see, is no flower at all!
Rather, she’s more like a tree standing tall.

With long limbs outstretched, to shelter her young,
And roots tunneling deep, to render her strong.

Yes Mama, you’re matchless—so brave, wise, and true,
That a lifetime could be spent saying how I love you!