There is no love as mother’s love, now hear my tale of woe,
A mother’s heart stays with her child, there’s no place else to go.
Our scene begins, our mother tells the heights a man can reach
Which, to an addict’s mind, is just another mother’s speech.
He’s not afraid to listen, ‘cause an addict never fears,
But when he heard her voice tone change, the meaning hit his ears.
“I saw your gang, and you with them, while coming home from work,
I saw them rob the hardware store, and shoot the woman clerk.”
“I’ve watched them give the children dope. Your crowd is awful mean
And when tomorrow rolls around, I’ll tell the things I’ve seen.”
“Oh, please, my darling baby, please, your gun has caused such strife.
It’s not too late. Ask God for help. Give up your sinful life.”
“Don’t, Mother, don’t,” he begged of her, “Don’t say how wrong I’ve been.
I pack a rod ‘cause that is God, there’s no such thing as sin!”
The tears were welling in her eyes. He mustn’t see her weep.
She sent her wayward son from home, and cried herself to sleep.
He hurried to the commune with despair and trembling hands.
The gang all listened wild-eyed while he told his mother’s plans.
“As this concludes my story boys, the time has come to split.
I feel a dead trip coming on, so sell me now a hit.”
They pulled it out from everywhere – Cocaine and grass and speed;
The underlying purpose was to test the addict’s need.
His body got excited while just looking at the stuff,
But when he lay his money down, they said, “That’s not enough!”
“What is the price you ask of me?” The words became a chore.
“Your money now, is short the fare. ‘Tis blood we’re looking for!”
“You’ll take a knife to do your deed – the sinews pull apart
And you’ll return – or don’t come back . . . without your mother’s heart.”
The words were slow to penetrate. How could he do this deed?
His body quivered violently. He must attend its need.
He started through the dark night air; his mind upset with pain,
Not caring that the cold he felt was heightened by the rain.
He tarried just an instant when he reached his mother’s door,
But soon his brain was reeling with the thought of drugs galore.
To enter in the bedroom caused a conflict in his head.
He paused another instant while beside his mother’s bed.
Throughout the lightning flashes, you could see the dagger rise.
The world in protest thundered; and the tears fell from the skies.
He held the knife upraised above the silent form below.
The lights reflected from the blade to set the room aglow.
Then downward plunged the glistening steel to part the tender flesh.
The pain flowed through all mother’s hearts, from Maine to Bangladesh.
Her eyes awoke in stark alarm; she slowly shook her head.
Her fingers clutched the snow white sheets, which now were turning red.
“Oh, weep ye not for me, my son,” the widow mother cried.
“Oh, cut it out,” he said – and did . . . and so the mother died.
The deed was done. The heart was his. It wasn’t even hard.
He gathered up the throbbing mass, and bolted through the yard.
To flee the scene his prime concern; and haste his only thought.
He did not see the upraised root, and so his foot was caught.
He tried to hold the heart despite this sudden change of plans,
But when he fell so violently, it spurted from his hands.
He picked it up so awkwardly, and wiped away the dirt,
Then heard it murmur one last time, “My baby, are you hurt?”
All mothers wish a perfect child; this no one can arrange.
But mothers love us to the end; Thank God they’ll never change.
Remember, sons and daughters now, the moral of this woe;
A mother’s heart stays with her child – There’s no place else to go.
-By: George Crady
