When Whistler’s Mother’s Picture’s frame Split, that sad morn, in two, Your tense words scorched me like a flame — You shrieked, “Ah, glue! Get glue!” O Glue!

When Whistler’s Mother’s Picture’s frame Split, that sad morn, in two, Your tense words scorched me like a flame — You shrieked, “Ah, glue! Get glue!” O Glue!