Mama’s Little Boy

A tearaway with golden curls,
he’ll always be a darling boy,
your little pet, your pride and joy,
the odd one out among the girls.

You worshipped that precocious child
who trusted you and shied from crowds,
the silver lining in the clouds,
a highland burn, remote and wild.

You’d cut him out to be a star,
a maestro on the violin,
a new Yehudi Menuhin.
You never dreamed he’d play guitar;

and now see nothing to commend
this bully charging round the bend.