Your ticker your tocker, fast on the rocker,

A babe in your mother's arms.

Oh love, much love, as she held you close,

Promising you no harm.

A mother, a mother, is there true love from another?

A toddler, swinging from her arms.

She tells you those stories, of knights in armor, glory and wonder,

But you know she will keep you from harm.

This mother, your mother, the ticking of her tocker,

Slowing as a man you grow.

She smoothes down your shirt, kisses of gentle power,

From her arms she lets you go.

Your mother, sweet mother, wave with words of charm,

"My son, sweet son, a promise you see."

"A promise, my mother? What may it be?"

"I promise I won't let you have harm."

Your mother, old mother, tired in that rocker,

You scoop her into your arms

Your mother, dear mother, her ticker her tocker,

Slowing to cold from warm.

"Mother, my mother," you say, squeeze her tight.

"You held me just so, many moons, many nights.

Your ticker, that tocker, it slows down to peace,

And I wish you to know a single promise from me:

Go to sleep, sweet moter,

Hold tight will my arms,

Go on, sweet mother,

I promise death brings no harm."