But Momma, Momma, I can help you
I can help you stop your tears.
Momma, Momma, stop and let me
help you; we don't need him here.
** ** ** ** ** ** **
The Masculine cannot help but see
himself in femininity,
not that what he sees is just the same,
but that her lack is his just claim.
And this is such as each man would try
to supply the defect in another's eye.
Like a widow's boy as his mother seeks
a newfound presence to take her hand.
The child sees it as a slight
against his presence as a man.
And so grow feelings of cuckoldery
Of misused trust, lost simplicity.
As mother gives her hand away
gone mother's love, gone are the days
when in child's grasp, they could sit and play.
The boy feels shamed and now replaced
in a station he had never faced.
He imagines his love now to go unmet
and boyish face, now unloved, wet.
For as one time is good, its times it ran.
In a way for which no child plans.
All good things are wanted to stay the same
Thinking bad things come when good things change.
Thinking that hands can but hold one other
and that one less love comes with one new lover.
But though all these things the child sees,
none could justify them rationally,
that does not stop the boyish tears
of pain of loss and pain of fear
and sorrow come with empty hearts
created in the lonely dark.