A Woman's Poem

He didn't like the casserole and he didn't like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard, not like his mother'd make.

I didn't perk the coffee right. He didn't like the stew.
I didn't mend his socks the way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer, I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked him... Like his MOMMA used to do.

~ Author Unknown. This has been sent around the Internet a few times, apparently. The next two sets are mine and get somewhat darker.

He never bought me presents 'cos he hated spending money.
He wanted laughter at his jokes though none were very funny.

He didn't want to grow up, he was really still a boy.
He wanted me to be his mum, his plaything, some dumb toy.

I wondered what to do about it, then Ahah! I knew.
I locked him in the cellar... Like his MOMMA used to do.

He'd go out of an evening, come back later, rolling drunk.
He thought it funny, in the bath, to give my head a dunk.

He told me what to do and, if I didn't, he would hit!
I walked all stiff from bruises but he didn't give a **it.

With brooding scowls and angry words, he seemed to hate us all.
He'd shout at me and at the kids. He'd make the children bawl.

I grew unhappy, so fed up, deep hatred I now knew,
One day he came home - "That's my gun!"... like POPPA once did too.