My kids are totally the boss of me;
I shall have no peace.
They make me to lie down exhausted,
they lead me to drink.
They guide me upon the path to the nuthouse
for Pete’s fucking sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of tantrums,
I will fear no time-outs,
for your bedrooms have doors that lock
and your father gets home at six.
Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, they comfort me.
But I am preparing to lose my shit
in the presence of all this whining;
let me anoint my throat with something cold
before my anger overflows.
Surely, peace and quiet will follow me
sometime after nine p.m.
And I will surf the web