A mother, a father, this womans job is never done. A cooker, a cleaner, trying and trying, tired and tired, waiting til this day is done.
A flower in the light, and a tear in the dark trying, trying and doing the best that she can do.
What this day will bring, she wish she had the key, only no one knows, cause a skirt she wears in the morning light and as the evening nears, a pair of trousers with a loving smile that layers and peels into a grim stern face holding on, trying, trying to do the best that she can do.
A mother, a father, a mother playing a father's role, caught up in rising and raising her pride and her joy, trying, and trying to be the best that she can be while she struggles to do the best that she can do.
Traded-in for a better life without them, fathers who left no pride or joy behind because they could not do and be the best that they could be.
But, still this mother allows herself to rise so that she can raise her children the best she can. A mother and a father that's all she can be, trying, and trying to be the best that she can be so that her children can be the best that they can be.
Trying and trying, rising and rising and raising her children to be the best that they can be.