A Woman’s Poem

Standard

He didn’t like the casserole,

and he didn’t like my cake.

He said my biscuits were too hard,

not like his mother used to make.

I didn’t perk the coffee right,

he didn’t like the stew,

I didn’t mend his socks,

the way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer.

I was looking for a clue.

Then I turned around

and smacked the shit out of him.

Like his mother used to do.

12 responses »

  1. Reblogged this on thisoldtoad and commented:
    I never really got to know my mother; I did have a better opportunity than my younger sisters. She was kind loving soul, against all odds. Would have done what this poem describes with that loving slap!!!
    toad

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