My mother, God love her, all pinnies and perms,
Tending grazed knees and dispelling the germs.
Then out of the blue, a sulk and a stare,
Soft as a peach in that linen ware.
Ol’ Walter Foster, her glassy-eyed pater,
A snifter of rum when he started to waver,
Dad cooking roast beef for dinner at noon,
Anticipating respite that can’t come too soon.
Is was all about Saturdays, our familiar theme,
The wrestling and racing, a religious routine,
Ol' Walt' hoiking phlegm till he threatened to choke,
Tamping his pipe and stinking of smoke.
But mum, she stood by him till the day that he died,
And I saw her as she hid in the cellar and cried,
Each memory tainted like a poison dart,
And I knew at that moment, he’d broken her heart.
With obligations dissolved and the future to seize,
The flatlands of Norfolk were waiting to please.
A trip to the coast on a caravan park,
And Promenade strolls from morning till dark.
‘course, she wasn't averse to the good life, our mum,
A bet on the gee-gees, the odd tot of rum,
The OXO bandits down Marshall's Arcade,
On Sunday, rubbing shoulders with the Bingo trade.
Yet she was always there for us, turning those wheels,
Pegging out washing and churning out meals.
Dutiful mother and dutiful wife,
Selflessly giving the best of her life.
But the years they rolled by and dad passed away,
As the family grew weak, there seemed little to say.
Mum soldiered on down a solitary road,
Convenience meals in a sheltered abode.
Then one day, poor mum, she suffered a stroke,
And the spine of our family had suddenly broke,
She now needed those who once needed her,
And mum soon found out who her real family were.
Gone were the days of the caravan sites,
Of seafood stalls full of Yarmouth delights.
The greasy fry-ups of bacon and eggs,
And a crusty old nobby to mop up the dregs.
Now all we have left are those vacant sands,
Each grain like an echo that seeps through our hands,
The monochrome memories surrounded in haze,
How I miss every one of those halcyon days.
Guess I'll treasure those times of struggle and strife,
When mum was the heart of our family life,
Wrapping up Saturdays in neat little bows,
And mum being mum, because that’s all she knows.
Tending grazed knees and dispelling the germs.
Then out of the blue, a sulk and a stare,
Soft as a peach in that linen ware.
Ol’ Walter Foster, her glassy-eyed pater,
A snifter of rum when he started to waver,
Dad cooking roast beef for dinner at noon,
Anticipating respite that can’t come too soon.
Is was all about Saturdays, our familiar theme,
The wrestling and racing, a religious routine,
Ol' Walt' hoiking phlegm till he threatened to choke,
Tamping his pipe and stinking of smoke.
But mum, she stood by him till the day that he died,
And I saw her as she hid in the cellar and cried,
Each memory tainted like a poison dart,
And I knew at that moment, he’d broken her heart.
With obligations dissolved and the future to seize,
The flatlands of Norfolk were waiting to please.
A trip to the coast on a caravan park,
And Promenade strolls from morning till dark.
‘course, she wasn't averse to the good life, our mum,
A bet on the gee-gees, the odd tot of rum,
The OXO bandits down Marshall's Arcade,
On Sunday, rubbing shoulders with the Bingo trade.
Yet she was always there for us, turning those wheels,
Pegging out washing and churning out meals.
Dutiful mother and dutiful wife,
Selflessly giving the best of her life.
But the years they rolled by and dad passed away,
As the family grew weak, there seemed little to say.
Mum soldiered on down a solitary road,
Convenience meals in a sheltered abode.
Then one day, poor mum, she suffered a stroke,
And the spine of our family had suddenly broke,
She now needed those who once needed her,
And mum soon found out who her real family were.
Gone were the days of the caravan sites,
Of seafood stalls full of Yarmouth delights.
The greasy fry-ups of bacon and eggs,
And a crusty old nobby to mop up the dregs.
Now all we have left are those vacant sands,
Each grain like an echo that seeps through our hands,
The monochrome memories surrounded in haze,
How I miss every one of those halcyon days.
Guess I'll treasure those times of struggle and strife,
When mum was the heart of our family life,
Wrapping up Saturdays in neat little bows,
And mum being mum, because that’s all she knows.
