Some teens don’t pass their homework tasks;
some teens don’t clean the loo,
carouse until the early hours
then sleep til half past two.
I guess I might forgive that stuff-
although it isn’t nice –
but, if this pad’s not spick and span,
you’re gonna pay the price.
The table top is coffee-stained,
the hairbrush full of hairs.
The piles of socks have run amok
and none of them are pairs.
The homework’s strewn across the room
with gay abandon. Lord! A
pox upon the punk who left
the pages out of order!
That plate down there – beneath the chair –
has decomposing mush on.
I must confess, that kind of mess
has rotten repurcussions.
The duvet’s stained, the sheets aren’t ironed –
there’s simply no defence.
And stinky shreddies on the bed’s
a capital offence.
The coffee’s spilled, the linen filled
with cigarette-end burns.
I’ve absolutely got to shoot,
cos pal, you’ve got to learn.
There’s half-drunk milkshake on the desk
congealing in the sun.
I’m sad to say, that shit can’t stay:
I’m gonna get my gun.