I am my mother with a painted face.
I hum the lullabies of the night and
She belts the ballad of the dawn.

I am my mother with a painted face.
My jagged springs–
Are not her crafted coils.
Her sophisticated grin–
Is not my pearly smile.

I am my mother with a painted face.
But something of her sassy stride–
Is found in my brown legs
And something of her twisted tongue–
Is in my gentle words

Yes, I am my mother with a painted face.
I am my mother, painted.
I am my mother.
I am my mother’s daughter