mama

my grand mother is grande in years, she's though as petit as a pixie and starts her mischief making first by glaring her creased nostrils into your affair,with her muzzle she did ruin our adventurous day by exhaling the truth to father, whose stern hands did chastise our mischance, and calamity, that was after a debacle what a storyteller she was after the heavy beating,she did soothe our tears with her tale of gnomes that consoled the cataract on our faces, with her strange stories he seemed to know how mysterious water got into coconut, or why the tortoise shell was patched and on our mats made of straw,at late we did find joy in the mouth that bit us