My mother used to whore herself...And my father...Would reap the benefits of her lab...She would scrub the floors for the white folks...To cook and to clean...For the man who broke her...And I love to watch her dance to the tunes on...The soul stations, yeah...But my mother...t of her brown eyes and her dark hair...The sadness fills my he...Like my mother or my father...cuse to make up for the pain...That I knew my mother felt...No matter the shame...I never got the nerve...But my mother...ayed for my brother and myself...Of my mother's desired happiness...And I'd hide...hen they would yell and scream...And set aside...His liquor, the salve...For the unseen wounds...So sorry for the pain...ould close her eyes and cry...uld close his heart and hide...ould close her eyes and cry...So sorry for the pain...So sorry for the pain...I always thought my mother