"Scrub, scrub, goes the sound
Of my mother tirelessly scrubbing dishes,
Well into the night.
Not once did she get thanks.

I'd get up in the morning
To find her awake,
Buisily packing my school lunce.
I took it for granted,
Never thanked her,
As my mother slaved away.

Now I think back in retrospect
And regret all the times
I rolled my eyes
At my constantly working mother,
When she's work the day away.
I want to take back
The expasperated sighs,
The groans and moans.
I want to take away the sarcasm,
The words of rage.
I want to take them away
And replace them
With words of thanks."