Ah, Poetry

I know that there is something wrong,
Said Mrs. Heidi Summers Long.
I have a headache and some zits,
Dirty hair and stinky pits.
My eyes are sore, my legs are cold.
I’m feeling super-duper old.
My nightgown has a spit-up stain,
I cannot even use my brain.
The coffee never seems to work,
My children make me go berserk.
The baby cries and screams and shouts,
The toilet paper’s running out.
The big girl stays up late, late, late.
I cannot find a tidy plate.
Baby howls when I wipe her,
My bedroom smells like poopy diaper.
Crumbs and stickers on the floor,
I really cannot take much more.
Feeling like the walking dead,
When can I go back to bed?
I have a cramp and my arm is- what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is… Friday?
G’bye, I’m off to group to play!

(Dedicated to the amazing ladies in my Friday playgroup [I wish every day were Friday!] and inspired by Shel Silverstein's Sick.)
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