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