At age two, to a goose, I wouldn’t say boo
whereas you son, would shoot it and stuff it too.
Why is it you
who cant sit still, while fifteen others do,
Who has to play with the fire extinguisher on the wall,
while everyone else is queuing, single file, down the hall?
Why is it you who has to snatch the block off the three month old,
who doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything you are told,
who needs to jump up and down at the front,
who has to roar, bark, gurn and grunt?
Why do you always rugby tackle the babies,
leap and stomp and stamp on the daisies?
When others are sitting, listening sweetly in a trance,
why are you performing a deranged, erratic, river dance?
When everyone is singing ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ notes
why are you trying to shove the maracas down your throat?
Why is it you – and seemingly no other?
Can you not see everyone judging your mother?
When you turn five and all you ask is why,
why, why, why, why, why?
I shall say, great question son, glad you asked
Why, when you were two, were you such an arse?
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