You people out there I implore <br />Don’t have your mum living next door <br />It seemed a good way <br />No rent she would pay <br />But the plan had a definite flaw <br /> <br />She nags from morn to sun down <br />Her brow in perpetual frown <br />Tells me what to wear <br />Which way for my hair <br />She forgets that I have now grown <br /> <br />She comes in now every fine day <br />Says she hopes she’s not in the way <br />Sits down - paints her nails <br />And all that entails <br />Endless fags with cups as ash-trays <br /> <br />In the mirror looking for roots <br />Bracelets dangling - all bought in Boots <br />Gossip, slander, advice <br />She gives in a trice <br />While putting on lipstick and rouge <br /> <br />Now happy with powder and paint <br />Hair now teased and looking quite quaint <br />Comes tearful dia-tribe <br />Cos her cat had just died <br />Face like a martyrdom saint <br /> <br />Tells hubby gals get like their mothers <br />While proceeding to hitch up her udders <br />She gives him a leer <br />While slurping some beer <br />And hubby runs for some cover <br /> <br />copyright Victoria George<br /><br />VICTORIA GEORGE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-mother-39/
