Mother
She's a harpy and a she-wolf
And we do whate'er she asks,
And we tiptoe over eggshells
Lest they turn to broken glass.
She's neurotic and she's house-bound
And the house is always clean,
And we're convinced that the illness
Is the reason that she's mean.
She is bitter and she's savage
And even silence wakes her
At one, at two, at Christ-A.M.,
And during her siesta.
She is coiled and she's lethal
And she's prone to fits of rage
And the torrents of expletives
Are so absurd at her age.
She is canny and deceitful
And she tortures us like bugs
And though they don't seem to help her
We are grateful to the drugs.
She is achy, she is cranky,
And the pills just make her sour
And because we want to help her
Her helplessness is power.