"Better'n a sharp stick in th'eye," she says to the ever discontent child, his sour tears mourning the slightest infractions; a lost doll, a denial of treats, or a wholly unfair task ("Clean you damn room!"). The words bounce off the child, because he is certain such astatement is nonsense.

Ungratefully the teenager munches down breakfast--fried potatoes and eggs overeasy. Such simple food, he longs for the taste of the world, the pleasures that all seem to enjoy, save himself. His tears are internal now, but her message is the same, "Better'n a sharp stick in th'eye."

Fancying himself a grown man, he sits at the bar lamenting the pittance his employer gives him for his martyrdom. He's certain he deserves more, but it's never enough; there's always some gadget that sits out of his reach. "Pour me another!" he cries to the heavens, bartender. On the other side of "mahogany ridge", working late hours for minimum wage, she fills the jar. His silly, drunken mind barely registers her words, "Better'n a sharp stick in th'eye".

Today, the job is gone. He sits, happily scraping by on whatever vocation will feed himself and--more importantly--his family. He values every cent that he receives and appreciates every opportunity to truly earn it.

With the taste of worldly goods turning sour in his mouth, he turns to the potatoes and eggs only to find that they're not so simple. He works for months to perfect the recipe and make them taste like they did when she made them. They're still not quite right, nor will they ever be.

It is night time in a city a million miles from home; his pillow a rucksack, his bed concrete. Himself acting as a pillow to his quietly snoozing partner and future mother of his child. Surrounded by foreign strangers, penniless, he quietly smokes and stares into the stars. He has little more than his health and his thoughts. He finishes the cigarette and a smile crosses his face. "Better'n a sharp stick in th'eye."

Thank you, ma.