(pam sawyer/r. dean taylor/frank wilson/berry gordy/henry cosby)
Mom was cooking bread She wore a dirty raggety scarf around her head Always had her stockings low, rolled to her feet She just didn't know She wore a sloppy dress Oh, no matter how she tried, she always looked a mess Out of the pot she ate, never used a fork or a dinner plate
I was always so afraid for my uptown friends to see her Afraid one day when I was grown, that I would be her
Ah, in a college town Away from home a new identity I found Said I was born elite, with maids and servants at my feet I must have been insane I lied and said momma died on a weekend trip to spain She never got out of the house, never even boarded a train
Married a guy, was living high I didn't want him to know her She a grandson, two years old That I never even showed her
I'm living in shame Momma I miss you I know you're not to blame Momma I miss you
Came a telegram Momma passed away while making homemade jam Before she died, she cried to see me by her side She always did her best Ah, cooking, cleaning, always in the same old dress Working hard down on her knees Always trying to please
Momma, momma, momma can you hear me? Momma, momma, momma can you hear me?
I'm living in shame, momma I miss you I know you've done you're best Momma I miss you Won't you forgive me mom? For all the wrong I've done I know you've done your best Oh, I know you've done your very best you could But I'm never understood Working hard down on her knees...
Printer Friendly Version
