“My son, you’re only twelve years old, ” she said, <br />“And if I let you journey into town, <br />Someone might cut your throat or strike you down.” <br />But still the boy continually pled, <br />Refuting points and laughing at her dread. <br />Though all the while she never ceased to frown, <br />He thought by wiles to wear her defense down. <br />He did, she lost, he won, and “Go, ” she said. <br /> <br />Down by a dusky music hall he made <br />His way, and there a band of Angels let <br />His blood flow out most painfully and slow. <br />And as he saw the light grow dim and fade, <br />His mother’s warning he could not forget, <br />But still he knew she had to let him go.<br /><br />William B. Watterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/apron-strings-2/
