She was the silent spectator,
Ideally she'd have preferred,
To be her story's narrator,
A dream that had to be deferred.
She did endure his porcine grunts,
His way of acknowledging her.
After his unsuccessful job hunts
To sympathise would have been a slur.
This drama continued for years,
The grunts and growls they never changed.
In her pillow she saved her tears,
Believing he was quite deranged.
The ever devoted mother,
Who'd lost her husband years ago.
Who couldn't play the role of father,
To control her son's massive ego.
But now she knew it was too late,
He'd most certainly outlive her.
She'd never have the chance to relate
All the true stories of yesteryear.
Sadly, no one would ever know
How she struggled to help him grow...