They piss on you, your precious kids,
No matter what you let them do;
If you forgive them for their sins,
They dump the guilt right back on you.

You shouldn’t let them answer back.
You ought to cook them proper meals.
We never let you talk like that.
(Can’t she remember how it feels?)

Every mother has a mother,
Alive or dead (it's much the same),
To give her child, because she loves her,
A mother’s gift: someone to blame.




first published in Staple 35, 1996