My Man-Child

I wish outhouses were still in fashion For I would be sat in one right now Away from the hypocrisy that is you But still close enough So when I hollered your name You’d still answer By God I don’t know how your mother managed She must have the patience of a sculpture For 21 years, to raise the man-child that is you Cement in her head I tell you! For if you were my child I would have asked for another one But boy does she have some good genes I can’t for the life of me possibly fathom the thought That any other girl than me could subject herself To the hysteria that is you I don’t know how I do it to be honest I must have sinned in a previous life But the biggest mystery of it all, my dear boy Is if I woke up one late Sunday morning Not finding you wrapped around the entire duvet With my teeth chattering Well, that would be the greatest catastrophe of all