Mama is a nagging wife.
When she nags; the house thunders, Papa trembles, we hide under the wooden bunk asking God to save us from the incoming third world war.
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.