Broom weed growing in yonder field
With yellow blooms and stems that yield
To a mother's hand when she's about
To change an attitude of a childish pout.

I often wondered why God created you,
When I'd have to pull and deliver to
My mother who knew how so well,
to plat your stems and make me yell.

Fields of yellow color countryside
As your flowers bloom and your stems go wide.
You seem to be waiting for that childish hand
To pull you up so you can reprimand.

An ode to broom weeds growing wild and free,
Bringing memories of my mom and me.
Memories that are funny, but oh so true,
You taught me much about a mother's view.

Children now don't understand
The world of broom weeds in a mother's hand,
They've never been subject to broom weed tea,
And I feel sorry for them, but not for me.

Broom weeds taught me manners
And how not to lie.
To walk like a lady and not be shy.
They taught me respect and loyalty too
And to forever love, the red, white and blue.

So here's to broom weeds
may they forever be,
A reminder of childhood and mother's
Broom weed tea.