Mother's Day Poem

Just turned eleven, and they required mirth;
a Mother's Day poem--no option or easier way.
In revolt, for the lost Mother of my birth.
a song, I copied from a magazine of May.

A cheat, a plagerism, he accused.
The assignment had been clear and plain.
There was no escape and no excuse,
though I could not bear the year of pain.

So, in my rebellion, I copied the song;
like the captives by the river of Babylon:
seventy years later, I ask,"Was I wrong?"
Forgiven, both he and I, but no one won.