As well as the Frozen soundtrack , I spend a lot of time hearing They say ….and I often wonder who THEY are, where THEY are and why THEY think THEY have the authority on everything
I was hoping to spare you the agony of my poetic attempts, unfortunately I have failed and have scribed a bit of a ranty ditty about THEY, whoever THEY are.
They live in tall towers, smelling of flowers, whilst sipping the best champagne,
Shaking their heads whilst tutting, “She did it again”
They tut if you do, tut if you don’t,
Moan that you will and groan that you won’t
They won’t let you know if you’re doing it right,
But will wake you up with a fear of failing, during the night
They tell you to do it this way, but don’t delay a day
Because their theories change as they please,
Whilst guffawing at you on your knees.
They see you through their giant binoculars, serving fish fingers again
Whilst they have organic, fresher than fresh meals delivered by electric train
They put their hands over their eyes as you drop a bookcase on your foot
Whilst soothing a baby in a sling and desperately trying to find the toddler’s favourite book.
They don’t know why you don’t get a grip and wear nice clothes
Whilst they strut about in pristine robes
They don’t know what the fuss is about
It’s child play, although it must be wooden and raved about in the latest magazines
They wonder where you read that puke and snot was better than a healthy, make up sheen
They release new techniques, which you think you have mastered
Just as they put their hands on their perfect hips
And say there were glips,
So please swot up on the latest trend,
Before you blink and it’s reached its end.
After spending three hours following their latest getting the baby to sleep rules before you unwind
You collapse on the sofa, which has taken an hour to find
And breathing a sigh of relief , throw a stray nappy in the bin
Which misses and unwittingly covers the spy camera
They left there to check you are on track, day out and in
You smile, pop a straw in the bottle of wine and enjoy leftovers of many a processed meal gone by,
Blissfully unaware of THEY, hopping mad in their headquarters ,
Somewhere up in the sky.
Muddling through the Mayhem of Motherdom 