I turned out rotten in the end,
as my old Mum predicted:
‘You’re just like your father,
but ten times more wicked.’
I know that she’d be proud of me,
if she could see me now.
Should I perchance have spared the life
of my maternal sow?
Sometimes the image haunts me,
the pickaxe in her back.
She would have liked to see it,
cos she taught me the knack.