Three strikes you're out

My sweet mum, she was a saint
just as everyone's mum surely is
eight feral kids to feed and clothe
and a husband who liked his drink

my sweet mum worked most evenings
at a neighborhood greasy-spoon diner
in a rough part of our blue-collar town

my sweet mum was loved and revered
by the folks who frequented the place
it was the local biker gang's hang-out
and where cops would cop for a break.

By the time i was twelve years of age
I'd been before the judge three times
"I dunno, young fella, he pronounced;
three strikes you're out in this game.
I'm gonna give you one more chance,
your mum, she speaks quite highly
of your love of school and your art.
Let's hope we don't meet here again !"

Well it turned out that one of those cops
who was friendly with mum at the diner;
we had met at least one other time
as a result of one crime or another.

One evening he came to our door,
on the night my mum was off work.
He was holding something in hand.
It seemed an odd box of some kind
I still picture the smile on mum's face
as she called me to look at this gift.
It was a 'painter's box of colors'.
with words written on a tag;
"Good luck to you, Billy; remember;
it's three strikes you're out in this game !"