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.
Do women deserve a weekly off, or do they need to pay,
For the sins of their husbands mother,
On that seventh day?
The mother who did what she thought was right,
Who never took a break.
Who was an obedient daughter-in-law, who accepted without a fight.