Dear Mom, I'm just sending you a couple of poems
- so called for want of a better designation.
As you will see, I don't do so well
when I try to get sentimental,
but at least you will get the idea.
From out of the agony of the past,
the truth has appeared to me at last,
God's own gift to me alone,
the thing he gave me to atone,
for all the pain and fears and tears,
that have pursued me through the years,
is your love, Mom.
In lonely box cars and prison cell,
even in battle's awful hell,
I've heard that voice I know so well,
"Tis for your own good, son, I pray,
don't be angry when I say,
I fear for you."
Anyway, my angel, how could I be?
When all that's decent inside of me,
is what there is of you.
Promises I can not make,
for promises I'm apt to break.
But just as long as I live, my Mom,
There's one who loves you,
your son, Eddie.
~ Edward Stewart Cahoon
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