4 May 2012
Mummy doesn't chop the sandwiches the way I like anymore, Not like before. In fact, usually she doesn't make sandwiches, Or listen to my wishes. She pours me a bottle of water, And like a pig ready for slaughter, She shoos me out of the house, And I scurry away like a tiny mouse. So I beg Ann Morrison for a chocolate bar, Because her classroom isn't very far. And Sam Daniels for a quarter of his cake, Which his mother always makes.
The bottle on the counter, Never fails to be found there. Mummy is with a new guy each day, They all shoo me away. They give her money too, She won't answer why or who. Mummy says I should call her Mum, And that I should stop sucking my thumb. She tells me I'm a baby, She's ashamed of me. She says I'm a mistake, The type that is brushed away like autumn leaves with a rake.
Ann says Mum's a drunkard, a head-case, she has all the signs, I say she's just fine. Sam says Mum's an ugly duckling, I don't think he's witty, I say she's very pretty. Soon, the tap stops working. The house is cold, There's never any food, The men are more frequent, My mum doesn't fit the mould, I guess she's just no good. But, I love her. The doctors say I couldn't, That I shouldn't. Mummy says that's a load of shit, Sometimes I just wish, that in the damned mould my Mum would fit.
Fit The Mould • Opuss № I