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Mother Hubbard

A dear person in my life sent this to me recently.  She takes common nursery rhymes and applies them to life around her.  I especially like this one.

Old Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard crawled out from beneath her covers to give her poor dog a bone. But when she got there, the cupboard was bare and so she staggered on. The next cupboard, however, she discovered was not bare, not bare at all. It had but one item, a treat just for her.

It was golden brown, long and sleek and filled to the brim with an amber treat. She forgot all about the poor dog.

She gazed in disbelief, for was this really her treat? With shaking fingers she reached. Her heart skipped a beat as she glided her long fingers around its sleek shape. It was cool to her touch but twinkled and glowed, warmth directed straight to her wounded heart.   

Old Mother Hubbard cradled her treat, caressed it, kissed it and wanted to put her lips upon it. She hesitated for just a beat, for in her heart she knew that by doing this she would breathe new life into it and it would empty her of hers.

Old Mother Hubbard was not always old, and her cupboards were not always bare, and her dog always had a bone. So, she turned her back on this cleverly disguised monster.  She closed her eyes to its brilliant amber color, turned her nose up so not to smell its enticing erotic scent, and closed her lips so that it would not be able to flow past them.

Old Mother Hubbard remembered her last treat. It took way from her all that life meant to her.  Her children were gone, her home a mere shambles, her dog with out anything to eat. She was called a booze hag by all that she would meet.

So Old Mother Hubbard did not drink. She walked to the market with her dog at her feet. To the butcher she cried still cradling the drink.  The butcher, a wheeler and dealer by trait, did not hesitate once his eyes gazed upon the liquid Old Mother Hubbard called hate.

Old Mother Hubbard asked for a trade.  “The amber liquid is yours in exchange for enough treats.”

Confused, the butcher asked “What kind of treats?”

“Bones,” Old Mother Hubbard said.

“Bones?” the butcher said.

“ Yes,” Old Mother Hubbard said.  “When I go to the cupboard to fetch my poor dog a bone, I can.”