My Man-Child
I wish outhouses were still in fashion
For I would be sat in one right now
Away from the hypocrisy that is you
But still close enough
So when I hollered your name
You’d still answer
By God I don’t know how your mother managed
She must have the patience of a sculpture
For 21 years, to raise the man-child that is you
Cement in her head I tell you!
For if you were my child
I would have asked for another one
But boy does she have some good genes
I can’t for the life of me possibly fathom the thought
That any other girl than me could subject herself
To the hysteria that is you
I don’t know how I do it to be honest
I must have sinned in a previous life
But the biggest mystery of it all, my dear boy
Is if I woke up one late Sunday morning
Not finding you wrapped around the entire duvet
With my teeth chattering
Well, that would be the greatest catastrophe of all
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