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Despite the fact that she was deaf,
She’d come and watch her son, the ref.
Those half-heard outbursts of derision
At every crass, inept decision,
She took as being songs of praise,
Behind the constant, buzzing haze.
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Her dress was black as blackest night
From which the stars had taken flight.
Her hair was greyish-white and on it
Perched a white and lacy bonnet.
The fans around her nudged each other
And cruelly named her “Whistler’s Mother.”