Lying there prostate, staring aimlessly at the ceiling
Her hands are cold, devoid of any feeling
The morphine has her in its grip
She can’t even take a sip

Of water to cool her feverish brow
Although she smiles, somehow
Her hearings still intact
Before that final dreadful act

They’ve given her forty-eight hours
Everything beyond our powers
We can’t bring her back or make her well
She’s wasted away, a simpering shell

What happened to that woman so bold
Who guided us from young to old
Who held our hand when we were hurt
Who cleaned our wounds so full of dirt

The woman who took us to our first day at school
Who prepared trimmings and the tree at Yule
Who gave us everything, who made us learn?
And wanted nothing from us in return

Who lost her husband, but carried on
Protecting us, because she was strong
Crying quietly in an empty room
Crying over her Husbands tomb

No matter he frail she’ll become
She’ll always be our faithful Mum
Right until her dying day
No one can take that away