'Mama's Mama' & 'Mother's Poem'

I came across the first poem below years ago in a book about running a ranch (whicle doing research for my non-fiction children's book) and I can't believe I haven't posted it here before, because I really like it and think of it often when I find myself complaining about 'work.'

It always makes me think of the second poem below, which is by Garrison Keillor. It's a much longer poem, so I will only post snippets here.

Thay're both funny!

Mama's Mama by Anonymous
Mama's Mama, on a cold winter day,
Milked the cows and fed them hay;
Slopped the hogs, saddled the mule,
Got seven children off to school.
Did a washing, scrubbed the floors,
Washed the windows and did the chores.
Cooked a dish of home-dried fruit,
Pressed her husband's Sunday suit,
Swept the parlor and made the bed,
Baked a dozen loaves of bread,
Split some firewood, lugged it in,
Enough to fill the kitchen bin.
Cleaned the lamps and put in oil,
Stewed some apples she thought might spoil;
Churned the butter, baked a cake,
Looked out and said, "For mercy's sake!
The calves are out of their pen!"
Went out and put them in again.
Gathered the eggs, and locked the stable;
Returned to the house and set the table,
Cooked a supper that was delicious,
Afterward washed all the dishes.
Fed the cat, sprinkled the clothes,
Mended a basket full of hose,
Then opened the organ and began to play,
"When you come to the end of the perfect day."

Mother's Poem by Garrison Keillor
Some mornings I get up at five.
With four to mother, one to wive,
I find the hours from light to dark
are not enough to matriarch
with goals for matriarchy high
among the apples of my eye.
. . . .
Negligence in the name of loveis just what we should have more of.
Don’t mother birds after some weeks of looking at those upturned beaks,
deliberately the food delay, hoping to hear their goslings say,
"What are these feathered, floppy things
attached to us? You think they’re wings?"
. . . .
My child, you have been betrayed.
The world you thought was neatly made,
its corners tucked in like a sheet,
is uncomposed and incomplete.

For years I carried on a hoax.
I made you think that scrambled yolks
or poached or boiled, fried or shirred,
are how they come out of the bird.
. . . .

(Actually, children discover their wings quite soon enough, it seems to me.)