Mom was more of an inheritance,
Just like the huge granary,
The massive plot of land,
Or his Beloved bronze stool,
And so was her beloved son.
The two of us kids,
Matthew and I,
Were like wretched rascals,
Worthy vessels by a measure,
Villains and brutes-
Oh No-I was the one,
Not him at all,
We worked hard, though disproportionately,
For master argued,
Since I was the giant-eater,
I had lots of energy,
Unusual calories,
Which had to be exploited exhaustively.
We Sweated indeed,
Brushed aside the strong words,
Which master said,
Wouldn’t break a bone,
He sweated due to anxiety,
Excitement over God knows what,
I sweated alike,
Due to the heavy lid,
Placed squarely on my head,
So I could nurse and nurture,
Never was I bothered,
To wipe off the dripping sweat,
Which Drizzled and drizzled and drizzled,
All day long,
As master cheered,
And jeered inwardly,
Let loose his tongue,
To sing me a work song-
An ingredient of hard work,
Which he claimed,
Will always pay me at the end of it all…
He said I had stuffed enough niceties down my silly throat,
That those who works not,
Ought not to eat…
