The Nag
Your conversation centers 'round,
Complaints of one kind or another.
I swear sometimes I think for sure,
You're someone's sainted mother;
Or more likely someone's maiden aunt,
Come back from the dead,
To punish me for all my sins,
And fill my life with dread.
You need me though, you know you do,
Without me who would listen,
To all the things you have to say,
All your pearls of wisdom.
You gripe about the world at large,
Politics, law, religion;
It seems to me that no one's safe,
From critical inspection.
You pick at me from morn to night,
About my faults and screw ups.
I'll never change, you know I won't,
So why don't you just shut up.
(In other words:
(If the meal ain't to your liking, don't shovel it in with both hands.)
Some people can't find anything good to say about anything but they won't leave.
They hang on for dear life with both hands and won't let go.
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