You people out there I implore
Don’t have your mum living next door
It seemed a good way
No rent she would pay
But the plan had a definite flaw

She nags from morn to sun down
Her brow in perpetual frown
Tells me what to wear
Which way for my hair
She forgets that I have now grown

She comes in now every fine day
Says she hopes she’s not in the way
Sits down - paints her nails
And all that entails
Endless fags with cups as ash-trays

In the mirror looking for roots
Bracelets dangling - all bought in Boots
Gossip, slander, advice
She gives in a trice
While putting on lipstick and rouge

Now happy with powder and paint
Hair now teased and looking quite quaint
Comes tearful dia-tribe
Cos her cat had just died
Face like a martyrdom saint

Tells hubby gals get like their mothers
While proceeding to hitch up her udders
She gives him a leer
While slurping some beer
And hubby runs for some cover

copyright Victoria George

VICTORIA GEORGE

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-mother-39/