We’re the women who dress up to visit our mothers. We live by our own standards, don’t paint us with your colour. Blow dry our hair and put on our best dress, No it’s not a night out to paint the town red!
She’s like the bottom of the pot, where the spoon scrapes. When there’s less inside, to put on our plates. The bottom of the barrel that bears the pressure, When it’s filled to the brim and there’s no ease or leisure.