Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren't his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.
Ruth Hulbert Hamilton
A friend sent this poem to me when I was pregnant with Lincoln. Although I have to say its a bit dated -- I definitely don't 'hang out the washing' and I don't even get the whole 'poison the moth' -- I do love the message behind the poem.
(On a side note, "hullabaloo" is a general term for a performance, celebration or other noisy even. And here I thought it was just a game by Cranium)
