The Little House

The Old Momma lived in a little house, with her children.
A small brood of four.  Two sharing a room.  In the little house with three bedrooms.
Not vast space, just nice.

Along came the landlord, like the Black Knights of The Hobbit, of the Lord of the Rings ...
demanding more space.  For the new folks in the street.
Off goes one bedroom.
The Old Momma is left with two.
Squeeze and make do, the Old Momma  tells her growing children.
Squeeze they did.  Trying to see the bright side of cozy co-living.

Meanwhile next door, the house was built, bigger, wider, taller than any other in the street.
A big family it must be, everyone thought.
But no, when they arrived in their limousine, just four in the family.
And a lot of space for each.

The Old Momma sighed quietly to herself, her heart wrenched with frustration.

As she went about her work, minding her own business,
she came across a stall selling fruits.
Bought some she did, for the children back home,
hoping to bring some cheer.

"Fruits, my dears," the Old Momma called, as she  returned home.
The children came, sullen-faced.
Picking up the fruits, the children then threw them  back into the basket.
"What fruits are these?" they questioned.  "We don't know what these are.  We don't want them!"

The Old Momma walked quietly away.
Though in her heart, she felt  like storming away and yelling at them.
Perhaps she should stop doing things for the children.
Leave them out in the woods to fend for themselves.

The Old Momma left the house.