How Can I Scoff This Giving Of Unreal?

how can I scoff this giving of unreal?

if it were mine I would dearly give it back

walk away with a turnip on my neck.

I am loose enough to swim.

a skin-graph on the groin 

my mother bathed as sweeheart

in the year it took no time to walk at all.

as tall as babycham 

she whistled as I dared myself 

to speak of her past tense

under lock and key

it made no sense to hide;

she pushed her science past the great white tongue.

it was the eagle in her eyes

a gothic smile of yesterday today

 haunts my eyes by fireside

burning like a log;

it was her gift of wood that made me loathe her more.

bound by love on the fluid of a glow

with our heads caved in,

I had no heart

you had a fiddle for a nose

and never cared four colours of the snow.

look me now dear mother.

I have fathered horse and varnished both their toes!

they are my miracle of touch in our loveless swamp.

they are yours o dearest mother

to darn one sock and walk to the forest inn.

it is noon-tide and the mouths are open wide.

we have grouse to feed

and the birds are all too thin;