After all the fuss, fancy, or whatever you do for Mother's Day, you might appreciate a good laugh. My Yankee grandmother used to entertain me as a little burrito with "My Black Hen" from The Space Child's Mother Goose (ISBN 1930900074); the poem popped into my head while I was looking up album dates for things in my digital music collection. The book came back into print a few years ago. You should buy a copy.

Probable-Possible, my black hen,
She lays eggs in the Relative When.
She doesn't lay eggs in the Positive Now
Because she's unable to Postulate How.

...

Flappity, floppity, flip
The mouse on the Möbius strip.
The strip revolved,
The mouse dissolved
In a chrono-dimensional skip.

...

Three jolly sailors from Blaydon-on-Tyne
They went to sea in a bottle by Klein.
Since the sea was entirely inside the hull
The scenery seen was exceedingly dull.

...

Little Bo Peep
Has lost her sheep,
The radar has failed to find them.
They'll all, face to face,
Meet in parallel space,
Preceding their leaders behind them.

...

This little pig built a spaceship,
This little pig paid the bill;
This little pig made isotopes,
This little pig ate a pill;
And this little pig did nothing at all,
But he's just a little pig still.

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Little Miss Muffet
Sits on her tuffet
In a nonchalant sort of a way.
With her force field around her
The spider, the bounder,
Is not in the picture today.

...

This is the way the Physicist rides:
a quantum, a quantum, a quantum.
This is the way the Agronomist rides:
I plant 'em, I plant 'em, I plant 'em.
This is the way the Philosopher rides:
O Plato! O Plato! O Plato!
This is the way that the Rocketman rides:
JATO! JATO! JATO!