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My grandmother's head is filled with the Lord.
She fantasizes about her inevitable homecoming.
She lives the rhetoric,
She lives to tell others of the love of the lord.
She considers Muhammad her enemy, which she must love.
She has raised six children and been around for eleven grandchildren.
She has weep'd and prayed over her babes,
She has loved and she has tormented her bairns.
She can be sweet and she can be gentle,
She can tell you what's what from her pious advantage.
She has been around for ninety years,
But my grandmother has never said,
"Son. You've done a fine job raising your own two sons."