Do not fret, no, do not worry,
Mother keeps you far from harm
You are broken, she will heal you
Cold, and she will keep you warm

In the world there is no other
Who can take the place of Mother
Let your weary problems fall
In the warmth of Mother;s hall.

Come ye. come ye, bull-shit lover,
To the arms of dearest Mother
Far beyond the dull world's ken
There, you need not fret again.

Hark, oh hark, past wind or snow,
Mother calls, and we must go.


Llewellyn Harttwig Chanticleer, 1878-1942

Songs of American Mothers
Brown, Putnam New York, August, 1928
Reprinted by permission