I swear; my mother does not swear.
I swore, an anagram for "this".
She found it hard to hear and bear,
Chastised me with a snorted hiss.

But she had told my younger sis
In one of her retirement homes
They teased her as a childish miss
With words unfit for holy tomes.

Frustrated, all her thoughts were foams,
She searched the corners of her mind
And thought at last of sailing gnomes
Whose language was the bluer kind.

The word she wanted, she did find.
Her brain had stored it in the middle
Though ne'er before was she inclined
She raised her voice and said, "Oh! Piddle"!

They laughed so long they burned the griddle.
She found it hard to hear and bear.
She might as well have said, "Oh! Fiddle"!
I swear my mother does not swear.

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